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GIFT   OF 
Alfred  Kelcy 


SONGS  OF  THE  ROCKIES 


"Poetry  is  the  radium  of  literature." 
Henry  Nelson  Palmer. 


•5ONG5- 

OP 
THE 

POCKIES 


BY 

CHARLES 

EDWIN 
•HEWES- 


DRAWINGS  BY  DEAN  BABCOCK 

THE  EGERTON-PALMER  PRESS 

H  EWES-KIRK  WOOD 

ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  NATIONAL  PARK 

COLORADO 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Copyright   1922 
By  Charles  Edwin  Hewes 


*<&tjyf*  *        ^T^- 

r 


Copies  of  this  volume  can  be  had  by  ordering 
thru  any  book  shop  or  direct  from  the  pub 
lishers  Price  $2.00,  per  volume,  postpaid. 


There  is  but  one 

In  all  this  world 
Who  hath  my  soul 

Most  tender  stirred; 
And  these  wild  songs, 

Writ  the  peaks  among, 
I,  as  flowers 

Proff  ed  by  a  lover, 
Place  at  the  feet 

Of  that  One,  my  Mother; 
And  next  to  her, 

My  dear  beloved  Brother. 

C.  E.  H. 


April  11.  1914. 


Elkanah  Valley 

Rocky  Mountain  National  Park 
Colorado. 


IX 


rT^HE  Longs  Peak  oberland,  and  the  region  close- 

!      ly  associated  with  it,   includes  both  slopes   of 

the    Front    Range    of    the    Rocky    Mountains, 

from  the  Arapahoes  on  the  south  to  Flat  Top  on  the 

north,  including  the  connecting  Mummy  and  Medicine 

Bow  ranges  and  the  Continental  Divide  to  the  Rabbit 

Ears. 

Seen  from  Estes  Park  and  the  Great  Plains  on  the 
east,  and  from  the  floors  and  west  rims  of  Middle  and 
North  Parks,  the  great  mountain  appears  as  a  huge 
central  mass  supported  by  vast  ranges  on  the  north  and 
south.  In  reality,  the  peak  is  on  a  short  spur  range  a 
mile  east  of  the  Continental  Divide,  but  this  separat 
ing  distance  is  so  slight  as  to  be  imperceptible  when 
the  range  is  viewed  en  masse. 

Two  of  the  four  large  interstate  rivers  rising  in 
Colorado,  the  Platte  and  the  Colorado,  find  their 
sources  in  this  region;  the  former,  not  only  receives 
an  immense  flood  from  the  tributary  Boulder,  St. 
Vrain,  Thompson  and  Poudre  streams,  but  is  also 
greatly  augmented  by  the  splendid  flow  of  the  North 
Platte,  streaming  northward  into  Wyoming. 

The  three  great  parks— Middle,  North  and  Estes, 
all  head  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the  lofty  summit  of  the 
American  Matterhorn — Longs  Peak. 


NOTE:  On  January  26,  1915,  nearly  a  year  after  the  publica 
tion  of  the  first  edition  of  this  work,  most  of  the  Long's  Peak  oberland 
was  incorporated,  by  Act  of  Congress  into  the  Rocky  Mountain 
National  Park. 

XI 


CONTENTS 
1907-1914 

Page 

Estes  Park— My  Colorado  Queen 207 

The  Mountain  Brook '. 208 

Worship ...209 

Song  Of  The  Quaking  Asp 210 

The  Heavenly  Blush 21 1 

You  Looked  Fairest  In  The  Hills 211 

Grand  Lake 212 

'Deed,  It  Seemed  Nice  To  Have  The  Cabin  Chuck  Full  of  To 
bacco  Smoke  Again 214 

Yon  Solitary  Blue  Hollow 215 

Birds  Of  Passage 216 

Estes  Park  In  Winter 217 

Longs  Peak 219 

Rosy  East 221 

Mt.  Clarence  King  From  Copeland  Lake 222 

Maximum  Gales 223 

The  Night  Log 226 

The  Mummy 227 

Beautiful  Isles  Of  Sky 228 

The  Dying  Thrush 229 

Val  Elkanah 230 

Altitude 232 

Wild  Alp  Wind  Roaring  Up  Aloft  and  Whirr  of  Bluebird's  Wing  233 

The  Mountain  Night 234 

Flat  Top 235 

Yon  Peak 236 

Mountain  Berries 237 

The  Sun  Shines  Bright  On  Lily's  Mount 238 

Song  Of  The  Trout 239 

The  Peak  Bird 240 

The  Wild  White  Wilderness 241 

XIII 


CONTENTS-Continued 

Page 

I  Know  A  Place 241 

The  Twin  Sisters 242 

The  Winged  Regiment 243 

The  Cabin 244 

Up  !  Up!— Into  The  Blue 245 

The  Fleeces 246 

The  Beaver 247 

Under  The  Snows ,251 

Winter  Flight  Of  Ptarmigan 252 

Aspen  Days  Are  Days  Of  Gold 254 

Virgin  Peaks 255 

The  Maid  0'  Cow-bell  Hill'. 256 

Purples 259 

There  Is  No  Border  To  The  West 260 

The  Alpenglow 261 

The  Quaker's  Bonny  Bonnets 262 

Some  Holy  Day 263 

Wild  Basin 264 

The  Mist  Dragon 267 

Spruces  And  Stars 268 

Song  Of  The  Glow-worm 271 

Louis 272 

Back  To  The  Hearth  Of  My  Hut 274 

Lights  Of  The  Vale 275 

The  Saw-whet  Owl 276 

The  White  Shepherd  Of  The  Oberland 277 

The  Hermit-Thrush 279 

A  Mountain  Morning  Gray  And  I  To  Work 280 

City  Lights  Seen  From  The  Wilderness 282 

Ye  Bright  Foaming  Waters  Of  Bounding  St.  Vrain 283 

The  Guilt  Of  Bearing  Proud  Antlered  Crest 285 

Ye  Green  Pines  And  Tall  Spruces  Of  Wind  River  Trail 286 

In  The  Valley  Of  Elkanah— There  Is  Love 287 

Tis  Moonlight  On  The  Sisters 289 

A  Thunder-cloud  Issuing  From  The  Black  Canon 290 

Mountain  Maid 292 

Love 294 

Tis  Evening  In  The  Valley  Of  Elkanah .  .  . .  295 


XIV 


CONTENTS 
1915-1922 

Page 

The  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  Colorado 1 

There's  A  Land 2 

I'm  Going  Back  To  The  Hills,  Old  World • 4 

The  Gates  Of  The  Canon 5 

Footprints  Of  His  Glory 6 

We  Go  Singing  To  The  Mountains 6 

Sprite  Of  The  Fall 7 

The  Lurk  In  The  Canon  Wall 8 

Squall  0' Wood 9 

Beside  The  Big  Thompson 10 

ParkHill 11 

The  Estes  Trail 12 

You  Say  You  Love  Me— Yet  Pluck  Me? 14 

The  Nuthatch 15 

Coming  West  Over  Post  Hill 16 

Say's  Spermophile 18 

'Mong  The  Hills  Of  Colorado 19 

The  Woods  Of  Aliens 20 

Stay,  Friend— I  Cannot  Let  You  Go 21 

The  Signet 22 

The  Guide 22 

Glist'ning  Soul 23 

Sky  Blue 24 

The  Three  Sunsets 25 

Deer 26 

The  Flocks  Of  The  Skies 27 

Song  Of  The  Owl 27 

I  Cannot  Cheat  My  Soul  Of  That  Sweet  Prayer 29 

Solitude  And  The  Gray  Dusk 29 

Another  Beautiful  Day  Has  Gone 30 

Hounds  Of  The  Dawn 30 

The  King  Of  The  Wolves 31 

It's  A  Coming— Hear  It  Bellow 32 

The  Great  Arm  Of  Winter 33 

Softly  Snowing  Mood  Of  Nature 33 

Faith 34 

Elk 34 

The  Range  Storm 36 

St.  Peter's  Of  The  Sky 39 

The  Great  Bright  Night 40 

The  Rosy  Finch 41 

A  Few  Stars  Are  Out 42 

Wind  On  The  Mountain 43 

The  Campbird 44 

Love  Song  Of  The  Snow 45 

Looking  Off  North 46 

The  Valley  Of  Thrones 47 

The  Caresses  Of  Stars 48 

The  Enchanted  Snows 49 

The  Great  Horn  Of  Meeker  Shone  In  The  Sun 50 

XV 


CONTENTS-Continued 

Page 

The  Chickadeeans 50 

When  The  Bright  Moon  Shines  On  The  Snowy  Peaks 51 

Poor  Bunny 51 

The  Wonder  Sleep 52 

Put  Up  The  Bar 53 

Going  West 53 

Wall  0' Gray 54 

Spirit  Snow 55 

My  Dog  Before  The  Hearth 55 

The  Pine  Grosbeak 56 

Starlight  Thru  The  Mist 56 

When  The  Moon  Shines  In  Mountain  Land 57 

Raining  In  The  Canon 57 

The  Call  Of  The  West 58 

Sunrise  Trail 59 

The  Home  That  Is  Home  To  All 60 

What  Golden  Canopy  Is  This? 60 

The  Porcupine 60 

In  The  Tawny  Days  Of  August 61 

Fate 62 

The  Mistake 63 

Wild  Call  The  Echoes  O'er  The  Loch  0'  Katrine 64 

Where  The  Dogtooth  Violets  Grow 65 

Good  Starting  Weather 65 

Bear 66 

The  Snake  That  Is  Rock 67 

Afar  The  Mountain  Calls  Me 68 

Chasm  Lake 70 

Conies 76 

A  Foggy  Morning  In  June 76 

The  Mountain-Land 77 

The  Trail  Of  The  Limber-Pine 79 

Clarke's  Crow 81 

At  The  Foot  Of  The  Peak 81 

Nature 82 

The  Chinook 82 

Sweet  Is  The  Smoke  Of  The  Aspen  Wood 83 

The  Chipmunk 83 

White  Tides  Of  The  Low ..  84 

The  Eagle 86 

Cloud  Stream  On  Longs  Peak 86 

Bighorn 87 

Dawn  At  Chasm  Lake 89 

Gush  0'  Spring 91 

The  Dread  Visitor  And  His  Band 94 

Veil  0' Vale 94 

Cruel  Shock!     Unconquered  Winter  Sweeps  Cold  Again  The 

Flow'ring  Vale 95 

Walt  Whitman  Would  Have  Enjoyed  This  Day 95 

Once  Again  The  Song  Of  The  Stream 96 

The  Day  Of  The  Pasque 97 

XVI 


CONTENTS— Continued 

Page 

Song  Of  The  Wild  Flower 99 

My  Alpine  Rose 100 

Fairy  A'  Wing 100 

Fill  The  Vale  With  Golden  Glory 101 

The  Midnight  Storm 101 

Woodpeckers 102 

Surges  Of  Wild 102 

I  Prayed  In  The  Golden  Noon 103 

The  Woman  Mountain 1 05 

White  Breaks  The  Squall 108 

Where  The  Iris  Blooms 108 

The  Pollen  Wind 109 

The  Solitaire 110 

If  Worship  Is  The  Sabbath Ill 

The  Bow  Of  Luna 112 

The  Far-Away  Mountains 113 

Cloud  Mass  Above  The  Twin  Sisters 113 

The  Robin  And  The  Owl 115 

Three  Ways  To  Worship  God 115 

Death  Of  The  Moon .'..116 

I'll  Sing  To  Thee,  Wild  Mountain ..116 

Moonrise  In  The  Vale  Of  Elkanah 117 

The  Columbines  Are  Blooming  In  The  High  Countree 119 

Shaft  Of  Gold  On  Game  Pass 120 

Grouse 121 

Big  Blue  Day 121 

Up  With  The  Boughs  Of  Aspen 122 

The  Savant 124 

Scold  0'  Mountain 126 

The  Young  Artist  Of  Deeps 126 

The  Marmot 130 

Bridge  Of  Clouds  On  Storm  Pass 130 

Lamb'sNotch 131 

Woman,  Wake  Me 132 

Love's  Only  A  Minute ...  1 34 

Pass  On,  North  Wind 134 

The  Cougar 1 34 

Angels  On  The  Mountain 135 

Gone  Is  The  Beautiful  Month  Of  June 137 

Day  Of  Chiaroscuro 1 37 

Bobcat 139 

Artist  And  Poet 140 

Friendship 1 46 

Ye  Cool  Mist  Of  The  Valley .  .  . .  1 47 

Big  Owl  Of  Big  Owl  Hill 148 

Beautiful  Days  Shine  On 149 

Parting 150 

When  We  Danced  Among  The  Pines 151 

Now  Comes  The  Shiver  Of  The  Storm 151 

Coyotes  And  Magpies 151 

<  The  Steppin'  Stanes  0'  Cabin  Creek 153 

XVII 


CONTENTS— Continued 

Page 

When  The  Blackbirds  To  The  Marshes  Come 154 

Chief's  Head  From  Aliens  Park 155 

Vesperado 1 56 

Mothers  Kisses 

Across  The  Range  To  Home  Sweet  Home 1 58 

Beloved,  I  Shall  Flower 160 

Above  Timberline 161 

Art 161 

I  Did  Not  Know  That  Lips  Could  Part  In  Such  A  Lovely  Smile . .  1 63 

Mother 163 

The  Ego 165 

Christ 165 

Thee 166 

It  Is  The  Years 167 

Once  I  Walked  With  Swedenborg 167 

God's  Smiles 1 68 

The  Artless  Song 170 

By  My  Father's  Golden  Beard 170 

Come  With  Me  Into  Israel 172 

The  Shepherd  Of  The  Nations 1 74 

Do  You  Think  That  Dear  Messiah  Will  Only  Come  For  You.  ..  175 

Age 177 

Ye,  Sma'  Crying  Bird 177 

"Tonight" 177 

Failure.... 179 

Mammon  Taunts 1 79 

Solace 180 

Mood 180 

When  Death  Comes  By 182 

Life , 182 

From  Sin,  I  Have  Lived  A  Day 183 

My  Shrine 183 

Gregory  Aubuchon 1 86 

Philosophy. .' 188 

Thought..  188 

Hope 188 

Bluebird's  'Neath  The  Cabin  Eaves 189 

Goodbye 190 

When  The  Last  Guest  Has  Gone 191 

The  Day  That  Was  God's 192 

When  The  Watch-Dog  Barks  At  The  Dawn  Wind's  Bay    193 

Farewell  To  The  Wilds 193 

Woodrow  Wilson 194 

Back  On  The  Trail 195 

Ye  Hills  Of  St.  Vrain 196 

The  Silence  That  Is  Silent  To  All 198 

The  Western  Trail 201 

Happy  Valley 202 

When  We  Camped  In  The  Vale  Of  The  Grand 204 


XVIII 


1915-1921 


THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  NATIONAL  PARK 
COLORADO 

SPREAD  a  magnificent  wilderness  of  mountain 
crags  forever  lifted  unto  the  bright  eyes  of  the 
beaming  stars;  of  foaming  waters  issuing  from 
glistening  fields  of  snow  and  ice,  and  gathered  and 
pooled  in  lakes  reflecting  peak  and  spire  in  skies  of 
melting  azure;  of  streams  forever  clasped  in  the  arms 
of  the  brooding  forest  and  foam-flecked  gorge;  place 
mountain  meadows  sweet  and  odorous  with  the  scent 
of  lilies,  of  roses,  of  orchids  rare  and  delicate;  clothe 
broad  alpine  slopes  with  soft  green  coats  of  fragrant 
balsam,  pine,  fir,  and  aspen,  and  populate  them  with 
bighorn,  deer,  elk,  bear,  beaver,  cougar,  wolf,  and  the 
other  quadruped  multitudes  of  the  oberland',  fill  the 
streams  with  the  play  and  flash  of  silvery-finned  com 
panies;  in  the  dizzy  reaches  of  the  uplifted  skies  place 
the  American  eagle  enthroned  among  the  clouds;  and 
in  the  low  recesses  of  valley,  of  canon,  glade  and  wood, 
place  wing  and  voice  of  the  ecstatic  lark  and  thrush 
and  other  innumerable  and  melodious  warblers  of 
sylvan  song,  and  with  them  the  diaphanous  winged 
myriads  of  an  insect  world  of  brilliant  moth  and  butter 
fly,  and  where  the  wild  bee  hoards  honeyed  treasures 
supped  from  blooms  of  ravishing  beauty;  then  in  the 
heart  of  this  teeming  wonderland,  piercing  the  very 
bosom  of  the  empyrean,  stand  one  great  peak — a  glorious 
shaft  of  gleaming  granite— so  noble,  so  vast  in  its 
overwhelming  beetling  solitude  of  grandeur  that  the 
spectacle  stills  the  very  heart  with  infinite  awe;  then 
over  all,  from  the  great  peak's  lofty  brow  down  to 
the  depths  of  the  shining  stream-paved  bed  of  the 
deepest  canon,  dash  the  golden  beams  of  a  Colorado 
sunrise  summoning  the  mountain  world  to  the  shrine 
of  a  perfect  day — this  is  Longs  Peak  in  the  midst  of 
the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park;  this  is  the  crest 
of  the  American  continent,  the  heart  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains;  here  is  the  beauty,  the  inspiration,  the 
romance,  of  Denver's  Great-White-Way — her  two 
hundred  miles  of  peerless  mountains — the  Snowy 
Range! 


THERE'S  A  LAND 


F^HERE'S  a  Land  where  a  man  has  a  showing 
j^      To  live  down  his  worst  with  his  best; 

Beside  the  bright  rivers  of  Somewhere 
In  the  heart  of  that  place  they  call  West. 

You've  a  chance  where  the  country  lies  virgin — 
Where  you  breathe  and  get  a  full  breath; 
Where  you  speak  and  honest  Truth  answers — 
Where  you  choke  evil  things  to  their  death. 


There's  a  Land  where  mountains  and  glaciers 
Form  waters  that  fill  up  the  seas; 
Where  canons  squeeze  rivers  to  ribbons 
And  dark  forests  stir  in  the  breeze. 

This  Land  is  where  both  worlds  are  closer — 
The  world  of  God  and  the  world  of  Man; 
For  their  greeting  point  is  Nature, 
A  language  we  all  understand. 

There's  a  Land  where  the  gray  wolves  are  calling 
Across  valleys,  of  moon  sparkling  snow; 
Where  the  sun  mounts  the  peaks  in  the  morning 
And  red  rubies  that  snow  with  its  glow. 

This  Land  is  the  country  of  Spirit— 
Where  the  soul  has  full  room  to  expand; 
Where  living,  and  laughter,  and  loving, 
Are  equal  to  one's  greatest  demand. 

There's  a  Land  where  the  big-horn  are  browsing 
'Mong  crags  that  were  hewn  by  the  wind; 
Where  the  cows  and  the  bull  elk  are  feeding 
In  pastures  most  sweet  to  their  kind. 

This  Land  is  the  land  of  big  feelings — 

The  land  where  a  golden  sun  shines; 

Where  you  cure  the  canker  of  worry 

With  health  and  strength  gained  'mong  the  pines. 


There's  a  Land  where  the  Wilderness  greets  you- 
Creation  you  meet  face  to  face; 
And  you  know  by  the  feeling  it  gives  you 
That  you  are  one  of  the  Chosen  race. 

This  Land  is  a  land  still  unconquered — 
Broken  by  man  it  never  will  be; 
From  its  peaks  you  see  cities  beneath  you, 
But  here  you  are  one  of  th§  free. 


There's  a  Land  where  you  live  your  religion- 
You  can  drive  Sin  and  Hell  from  your  soul; 
And  the  thought  of  death  is  a  pleasure, 
For  here  you  know  it's  Life's  final  goal. 

This  Land,  tho  it's  miles  in  the  reaching, 
Yet  it  has  no  room  for  the  bad; 
Its  skies  and  its  hills  do  the  preaching — 
Better  sermons  never  were  had. 


There's  a  Land  where  the  eagles  are  soaring — 
Where  the  chickadee  chirps  soft  to  its  mate; 
Where  the  tempests  of  winter  are  roaring — 
Where  sweet  Dispensations  challenge  fixed  Fate. 

This  Land  is  where  heroes  are  moulded — 
Courage  undaunted  is  bred  in  their  blood; 
They  measure  their  strength  for  the  battle 
By  the  force  of  the  storms  they've  withstood. 


There's  a  Land  where  the  angels  are  winging- 
Where  peaks  sing  to  the  neighboring  stars; 
Where  the  heart  feels  the  pulse  of  the  Master- 
Where  the  Spirit  has  cast  down  the  bars. 

Oh!  Land  of  the  Soul!     Rocky  Mountains! 
Far  upraised,  to  lift  man  on  high; 
To  show  him  the  beauty  of  living 
When  the  presence  of  God  is  nigh 


I'M  GOING  BACK  TO  THE  HILLS,  OLD  WORLD 


I'M  going  back  to  the  Hills,  old  World, 
I   Back  to  the  Promised  Land. 
I'm  going  back  to  the  Wilderness 
Where  the  snowy  Mountains  stand. 


Old  World,  you  have  left  your  marks  on  me; 

For  bread  you've  given  me  stone. 
With  joy  I'm  off  for  the  Hills,  old  World; 

I'm  leaving  you  all  alone. 


Alone  with  your  sins,  your  wiles,  your  ways; 

Alone  with  your  sold,  slave  days; 

With  your  Game  of  busy  Business 

Which  craven  Man  so  foolish  plays — 
I'm  going  back  to  the  Hills,  old  World, 

To  the  Hills  where  Nature  stays. 


Old  World,  I'll  accept  your  Challenge  cold — 

I'll  dwell  in  the  Hills  of  Stone. 
Proud  Mammon,  I've  got  my  pack  on  my  back, 

I'm  leaving  you  all  alone. 


Alone  with  your  gold  by  the  Money  Throne; 

Alone  with  your  measly  bone; 

To  wrangle  and  gnaw  the  living  Flesh 

In  the  lust  of  your  Very  Own — 
I'm  going  back  to  the  Hills,  old  World, 

With  pray'r,  that  you'll  some  day  atone. 


I'm  going  back  to  the  Hills,  old  World, 
Back  to  the  Promised  Land. 

I'm  going  back  to  the  Wilderness 
Where  the  snowy  Mountains  stand. 


The  canons  are  the  natural  gateways  to  the  oberland  and  the 
streams  which  flow  thru  them  usually  afford  the  engineer  and  the 
road  maker  a  natural  grade  to  their  sources,  the  foot  of  the  loftiest 
peaks  of  the  Snowy  Range.  The  canons  of  the  Cache  La  Poudre, 
Big  Thompson,  St.  Vrain,  and  Boulder  streams  in  the  Colorado 
National  Forest  on  the  east  slope,  and  the  various  branches  of  the 
Grand-Colorado  river  in  the  Arapahoe  National  Forest  on  the  west 
slope,  of  the  Continental  Divide,  are  the  natural  entrances  to  the 
Rocky  Mountain  National  Park. 


THE  GATES  OF  THE  CANON 

r  T^HE  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you — 
I          They're  the  oldest  gates  in  the  world; 
They  were  ancient  with  hoary  verdure 
When  Greece  and  Rome  their  banners  unfurled. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you — 

Their  portals  ope'  in  glory  grand; 
Ledge  on  ledge,  pier  on  pier,  height  on  height, 

They  were  reared  by  Nature's  hand. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you 
To  the  haunts  and  homes  of  the  gods ; 

To  mountains  and  peaks  in  distant  view; 
To  dizzy  crags  where  man  never  plods. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you 

To  forests,  meadows,  and  flowers; 
To  the  charms  of  the  stream  beside  you 

With  its  miles  of  watery  bowers. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you 

To  bright  clouds,  to  mists,  and  the  storm; 

To  the  rainbow's  arch,  the  wind  god's  spew, 
To  the  gulf  where  the  tempest  takes  form. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you 
To  clear  lakes,  to  fountains,  and  snows; 

To  temples  of  light  and  rosy  hue; 
To  spires  where  the  sunrise  first  glows. 

The  Gates  of  the  Canon  welcome  you 

To  lift  your  soul  to  heavenly  skies; 
For  Nature  to  love  you  and  lead  you 

Where  the  songs  of  Creation  rise. 


FOOTPRINTS  OF  HIS  GLORY 

Holy— Holy! 

The  mountain  side  is  decked  in  floral  beauty! 
Softly— Softly- 
Let  us  kneel  down,  it  is  our  sacred  duty; 
For  the  Lord,  Himself,  hath  passed  this  way — 
Flowers  are  footprints  of  His  glory. 

WE  GO  SINGING  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 

WE  have  waited  for  the  summer; 
We  have  waited  for  the  flowers; 
We  are  going  to  the  mountains 
To  spend  the  bright  glad  hours. 
Our  thoughts  are  fleet  and  merry — 

The  road  is  wide  and  broad — 
The  hills  are  sweet  with  promise 
And  we  glorify  our  God. 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains, 
With  the  gladness  of  the  plains. 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains 

Where  the  joy  of  summer  reigns. 
Our  hearts  are  light  and  joyful — 
Hours  pass  like  happy  dreams — - 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains 

Beside  the  crystal  streams. 

The  fields  are  green  and  smiling; 

The  woods  are  deep  and  cool ; 
The  brooks  are  clear  and  sparkling 

And  the  skies  of  sunshine  rule. 
The  birds  are  singing  blithely; 

The  meadows  are  in  bloom; 
The  bee  is  in  the  clover — 

Gay  we'll  greet  our  mountain  home. 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains, 
With  the  gladness  of  the  plains. 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains 

Where  the  joy  of  summer  reigns. 
Our  hearts  are  light  and  joyful- 
Hours  pass  like  happy  dreams — 

We  go  singing  to  the  mountains 

Beside  the  crystal  streams. 


SPRITE  OF  THE  FALL 


A  CHARMING  sprite  lives  'neath  the  waterfall; 
The  Ouzel,  flitting  elf,  voice  musical; 
Swift  winging  down  the  stream  'mid  misty  spray, 
Its  body  agleam  o'er  the  watery  way 
Like  burst  of  light  under  the  sun's  gold  ray, 
Flashing  wings  wet  with  moisture  vapory. 
Afoot  on  the  ledge  of  a  mid-stream  rock 
Amid  the  flood  where  the  torrent  swells  shock, 
It  dips  its  form  where  the  white  ripples  swarm — 
Where  the  young  trout  teem  in  the  still  pool's  calm; 
Then,  with  cry  mingling  clear  with  stream's  low  song, 
Fleet  to  its  cave  where  its  nestlings  throng. 
On  a  stone  at  foot  of  the  waterfall 
A  moment  it  pauses  to  sense  the  call, 
While  the  stream  rolling  full  o'er  the  wide  ledge, 
Pours  its  clear  flood  in  thin  veils  o'er  the  edge. 
Thru  this  the  fowl  plunges  to  cave  within — 
Shrill  now  cry  the  young  with  clamor  and  din; 
Then  to  silence  as  with  food  their  mouths  brim — 
Brood  of  the  ouzel  in  cavern  so  dim. 
A  flash  in  the  sun  above  the  fall's  brawl, 
Its  veil  bright  shattered  with  flight  beautiful — 
Piercing  the  water  like  shot  thru  a  wall, 
The  Ouzel  darts  forth— wild  Sprite  of  the  Fall. 


Slide  and  avalanche  ever  lurk  in  the  canon  walls  of  the  streams 
descending  from  the  oberland.  During  the  summer,  fall,  and  winter 
months,  the  danger  is  not  so  great,  but  during  the  period  of  the 
spring  thaws,  rocks  of  every  size  and  description,  from  mere  pebbles 
to  whole  ledges  of  vast  bulk  and  weight,  and  constantly  sprung 
and  loosened  by  the  cleavage  of  ice  and  frost,  are  finally  broken 
from  the  mountain  and  precipitated  into  the  depths  of  the  canons. 

Two  notable  instances  of  this  character  have  occured  in  the  past 
decade.  "Sheep's  Head,"  a  famous  land-mark  in  the  Big  Thompson 
canon,  fell  into  the  State  highway  and  obstructed  it  for  some  distance 
until  removed  by  workmen.  In  the  canon  of  the  Middle  St.Vrain, 
a  huge  ledge  of  granite  in  the  "Big  Narrows"  slipped  into  the  stream 
diverting  its  course,  destroyed  a  bridge  and  buried  the  road  so  deeply 
that  it  was  necessary  to  construct  an  entirely  new  highway  at  this 
point.  Both  of  these  slides  happened  in  the  dead  of  night  when 
there  was  no  traffic  on  the  roads  and  up  to  the  present  time  no 
serious  accidents  to  human  life  or  property  from  this  cause  have 
occured. 


THE  LURK  IN  THE  CANON  WALL 


ENTER  the  Canon  Gates  with  confidence 
Tho  a  thousand  tons  may  fall; 
Enter  ye  in  with  faith,  hope,  and  love, 
Tho  there's  death  in  the  canon  wall: 
The  rock  that  for  ages  has  tottered 
Will  fall  by  the  Lurk  in  the  wall; 
Tho  it  cleaves  a  path  of  ruin  wide 
It  will  miss  you  in  its  fall. 


A  ledge  that  has  hung  for  centuries 

For  the  push  of  the  Lurk  in  the  wall ; 
Tho  it  fills  the  gorge  and  dams  the  stream, 

Yet  its  fated  for  that— that's  all. 
For  Fate  is  so  turned  by  the  Master  hand, 

When  one  has  faith,  and  hope,  and  love; 
Tho  a  thousand  tons  fall  from  the  heights  above 

There  is  nothing  to  fear  at  all. 


SQUALL  0'  WOOD 


'    I  *HE  noisy  Jay  with  wing  of  flashing  blue — 
I      Painted  Huron,  whooping  the  wild  woods  thru ; 

Filling  the  glades  with  real  and  false  alarms, 
Yet  beautiful  to  view,  its  bright  plumed  charms. 
Doubter — e'en  to  itself,  nor  trusts  its  mind; 
Rank  skeptic,  yet  most  daring  of  fowl  kind; 
Acknowledged  bird  scout  and  spy  of  danger, 
Lurking  'mong  the  trees  like  forest  ranger; 
Seeking  scalp  of  each  intrusive  stranger 
Entering  its  domain;  squalling  anger — 
Fierce,  vengeful;  yet,  withal,  sly  laughing  rogue; 
Mere  buffoon,  brawling,  its  long  accustomed  vogue. 
Pretended  epicure,  toying  its  food, 
Yet  miser,  hoarding,  its  inherent  mood. 
Secretive,  rearing  hidden,  its  shy  brood; 
The  Bluejay,  with  crested  hood — Squall  0'  Wood. 


BESIDE  THE  BIG  THOMPSON 


BESIDE  the  Big  Thompson  so  bright  and  so  blue, 
I  met  a  sweet  maid  in  red  calico's  hue. 
She  had  dainty  dimples  in  her  rosy  cheeks  fair, 
And  I  fetched  her  a  rosebud  to  put  in  her  hair. 
Singing,  flow,  away,  flow — 
Big  Thompson  so  blue, 
As  I  sing  you  the  song 
Of  my  Calico  Sue. 

All  day  as  we  fished  in  the  river  so  blue, 

I  ardently  sought  for  the  love  of  Miss  Sue. 
But  she  was  as  game  as  the  trout  that  we  caught, 
And  for  all  my  day's  Woo  I  won  only  a  pout. 
Singing,  flow,  away,  flow — 
Big  Thompson  so  blue, 
As  I  sing  you  the  song 
Of  my  Calico  Sue. 

But  in  the  soft  evening  as  we  ate  our  fish, 

I  captured  her  heart  quite  against  her  stout  wish; 
And  as  over  the  hills  when  first  peeped  the  full  moon, 
We  were  eating  together  out  of  the  same  spoon. 
Singing,  flow,  away,  flow — 
Big  Thompson  so  blue, 
As  I  sing  you  the  song 
Of  my  Calico  Sue. 

And  now  she's  my  fair  bride  so  sweet  and  so  true; 

She  is  my  heart's  idol,  my  Calico  Sue. 
And  whenever  we  wish  our  fond  love  to  renew, 

We  stroll  up  the  Big  Thompson  so  bright  and  so  blue. 
Singing,  flow,  away,  flow — 
Big  Thompson  so  blue, 
As  I  sing  you  the  song 
Of  my  Calico  Sue. 


10 


PARK  HILL 


WHEN,  on  the  border  of  some  rare  Region — 
Perhaps,  a  dream,  so  fair  its  magic  view, 
That  the  senses  catch  a  waft  of  Beauty 
'Which  ravishes  the  soul  with  visions  new; 
So  the  majestic  summit  of  Park  Hill, 
Where  Muggins  Gulch  declines  its  meadows  east; 
Where  Mountain  Jim,  his  cabin  near  the  spring, 
Upon  the  vista  to  the  west  did  feast. 
Ah!  Nugent,  scion  of  a  British  peer — 
Degenerate,  perhaps,  but  not  in  eye; 
Thine  English  landscape,  softly  pastoral, 
But  raised  thy  taste  to  mountain's  grandeur  sky. 

Behold — upon  the  curtains  of  the  West 

Such  altitudes  as  England  never  knew; 

Beauty  on  beauty,  beautifully  piled — 

Successive  ranges  of  stupendous  view. 

One  of  World's  fairest  parks  spread  at  your  feet, 

Its  farthest  forests  reaching  to  the  snow; 

Then  terrestrial  solitudes  of  stark  rock 

Unconscious  of  the  verdured  sward  below. 

'Bove  the  whole,  continent  on  continent 

Piled,  of  red  lightning's  fire  illumed  cloud — 

Great  Jove  astride  the  swan-spread,  hail-keeled  Storm, 

His  thunders  booming  thru  the  canons  loud. 

Here,  by  the  Pillars  of  Exalted  Sky, 

Dwelt  Jim,  first  bard  of  Rocky  Mountain  Park; 

Nugent,  "the  lone  trapper,"  his  rude  cabin, 

On  that  Mystic  Border,  a  Poet's  ark. 

What  matter,  his  verses  be  forgotten 

In  the  swift  ebb  of  careless,  fleeting  Time; 

He  wept  at  the  spectacle  of  Sunrise — 

Evening  stirred  him  to  melancholy  rhyme. 

The  gift  he  had,  wild  frenzy  of  the  art; 

His  soul  deep  emotioned  to  Beauty  in  its  prime: 

Park  Hill,  where  dwelt  the  Poet  by  his  shrine — 

Trust  for  Aye,  the  Bard,  to  find  the  scene  sublime. 


11 


THE  ESTES  TRAIL 


Estes  Park,  the  eastern  approach  and  sublime  portico  of  the 
Rocky  Mountain  National  Park,  is  doubtless  one  of  the  most 
naturally  beautiful  mountain  parks  in  the  world.  It  consists  of  a 
deep,  symmetrical,  meadowy,  grassy  amphitheatre  several  miles  in 
length,  completely  surrounded  by  lofty  mountains  verdured  with 
vast  forests  of  handsome  conifers,  and  presenting  near  and  perfect 
perspectives  and  vistas  of  the  Snowy  Range,  the  Continental 
Divide,  the  Mummy  Range,  Long's  Peak,  and  the  Twin  Sisters; 
with  Castle,  Deer,  Old  Man,  Prospect,  and  Sheep  and  other  moun 
tains,  all  lower  but  nobly  picturesque  eminences,  together  with  the 
great  foothills  of  the  Rockies,  north,  east,  and  south.  It  is  drained 
by  the  Big  Thompson  river. 

It  was  a  favorite  hunting  ground  of  the  Indians  previous  to 
1850,  and  was  first  settled  by  Joel  Estes  and  family  in  1860,  taking 
its  name  from  them.  Tradition  asserts  that  Kit  Carson  and  other 
trappers  visitecj  it  about  1850.  In  1867,  Griffith  Evans  succeeded 
to  the  Estes  claims.  In  1873,  the  Earl  of  Dunraven  began  the 
acquisition  of  the  lands  of  the  park  from  the  Government  for  a 
game  preserve  and  the  Evans  holdings  were  purchased  by  him; 
later,  the  Earl's  possessions  in  Estes  Park  passed  into  the  hands  of 
Stanley  &  Sanborn;  this  tract,  about  7,000  acres,  together  with  the 
numerous  homesteads  and  acquisitions  of  other  settlers,  has  put 
most  of  the  park  into  private  hands.  The  eastern  boundary  of  the 
Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  and  the  western  boundary  of  the 
Colorado  National  Forest  is  one  and  a  half  miles  west  of  Estes 
Park  village,  the  two  reservations  adjoining  at  that  point. 


r~pHERE  are  trails  to  the  Western  Country— 
|     To  the  lap  of  the  Land  Sublime; 
Where  men  in  the  ardor  of  living, 
Forget  the  slow  measures  of  Time. 
There  are  ways  to  Vacation's  Doorway — 
To  high  regions  of  snow-cooled  clime; 
Where  outdoors,  in  the  open,  dwelling, 
Men  renew  the  youth  of  their  prime. 
Yet  there's  none  so  fair  in  the  Trav'ler's  tale, 
Where  Nature  with  grandeur  the  senses  regale, 
As  the  path  to  the  Nation's  fairest  vale — 
Great  Park  of  the  Rockies  on  the  Estes  Trail. 


12 


When  this  land  was  young  the  Indian  came 

And  camped  by  the  shore  of  the  winding  stream. 
He  broke  thru  the  canons  in  search  of  game — 

Discovered  the  land  of  his  hunting  dream. 
Afar  spread  the  tale  of  its  beautiful  fame — 

The  Arapahoe  fought  to  possess  the  same; 
On  many  a  crest,  with  war-whoop  and  scream, 

He  held  the  fair  land  by  battle  supreme. 


Then  to  this  land  the  first  white  settler  came — 

Joel  Estes  with  rifle  and  oxen  team; 
The  Arapahoe  fled  in  despair  from  the  scene— 

His  tepee  gave  way  to  the  log  cabin's  beam. 
The  next  pioneer  was  Golden  Haired  Jim, 

Who,  with  Grif  Evans,  wrought  blood's  crimson  stain: 
Then  the  Earl  of  Dunraven  claimed  the  domain, 

With  his  knights  and  ladies  of  noble  mien. 

Thus  the  Park  of  the  Rockies,  from  man  to  man, 

Passed,  as  all  Earth  does,  in  the  human  span: 
Aborigine,  settler,  aristocrat — 

Then  to  the  wise  laws  of  the  free  Democrat, 
Which  gave  to  the  Nation  this  beautiful  land, 

Forever  free  to  Democracy's  band; 
Great  Park  of  the  Rockies  it  ever  shall  be, 

Preserved  for  all  time  in  virgin  purity. 


Here  in  the  heart  of  the  Nation's  broad  lea; 

Here  on  the  Heights  that  divide  the  Great  Sea, 
O'erlooking  the  Oceans,  Cities,  and  Plains — 

Here  where  the  glacier  and  snow  ever  reigns; 
Here  are  welcomed  all  people,  rich  and  poor, 

To  the  Beautiful  Land  at  the  Mountain's  Door- 
The  Park  of  the  Rockies,  Vacation's  throne; 

Recreation  Land  that  the  People  own. 


13 


There  are  trails  to  the  Western  Country — 
To  the  lap  df  the  Land  Sublime; 
Where  men  in  the  ardor  of  living, 
Forget  the  slow  measures  of  Time. 
There  are  ways  to  Vacation's  Doorway — 
To  high  regions  of  snow-cooled  clime; 
Where  outdoors,  in  the  open,  dwelling, 
Men  renew  the  youth  of  their  prime. 
Yet  there's  none  so  fair  in  the  Trav'ler's  tale, 
Where  nature  with  grandeur  the  senses  regale, 
As  the  path  to  the  Nation's  fairest  vale — 
Great  Park  of  the  Rockies  on  the  Estes  Trail. 


The  conservation  of  wild  flowers  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  National 
Park  is  strongly  insisted  on  by  the  Park  Service  and  signs  cautioning 
visitors  against  needless  and  promiscuous  picking  are  in  evidence 
in  those  regions  of  the  park  where  the  wild  flowers  are  particularly 
tempting  to  the  greedy  and  thoughtless  visitor. 


YOU  SAY  YOU  LOVE  ME-YET  PLUCK  ME? 


r  I  'HEY  come,  our  enemies!    We  tremble  —  Let  us 
" 


Thus  the  flowers,  as  strolling  people  come  their 

way. 

Some,  rudely  ravage,  ruthless  tear,  uproot  and  crush; 
Some,  gently,  sweetly  worship  in  adoring  hush. 
"You  say  you  love  me  —  Yet  pluck  me?" 
Thus,  the  flowers,  to  those  that  pluck  too  rude  and  free. 


Those  persons  that  fulfill  too  well  the  flower's  fears, 
Most  brutal  ravish  and  assault  with  heedless  ears; 
Yet  true  flower  lovers,  sensitive,  know  their  speech, 
And  thus  soft  assure  as  they  gently  pluck  and  reach; 
"Yes,  darlings,  we  love,  caress  thee  thus  and  pluck  thee, 
Bright,  perfumed  beauties,  for  our  Bride's  festivity." 
"Oh!  Great  joy  comes  now  to  me,"  replies  the  flower, 
"That  I  have  lived  to  adorn  a  bridal  bower." 

14 


Thus,  the  lesson  poets  gather  from  the  flowers: 

To  fair  adorn  the  votive  vase,  the  dining  hours, 

Blossoms  on  a  maiden's  breast,  a  bridal  bower — 

All  functions  appropriate  to  social  power — 

Are  holy  offices  of  flowers  beautiful, 

If  plucked  with  tender  hands,  sparing,  dutiful. 

A  blossom  here,  a  blossom  there,  some  left  for  seed; 

No  root  disturbed,  with  knife  or  shears  the  stem  is  freed. 

If  plucked  thus,  fair  and  just,  with  careful  touch — no 

greed- 
Perpetual  they'll  grow — nor  say  to  us  they'll  need: 
"You  say  you  love  me — yet  pluck  me?" 
Thus,  the  flowers,  to  those  that  pluck  too  rude  and  free. 

THE  NUTHATCH 

PYGMY  Nuthatch,  short  waistcoated  creature, 
With  trim  vest,  neater  than  any  waiter. 
Flocking  yellow-pine  boughs  like  playing  elves, 
Pecking  the  bark,  singing  low  to  themselves. 
With  a  sudden  alarm  or  sportive  fly 
They  spring  from  one  tree  to  another  by; 
Sweet  warbling,  creeping,  darting,  fluttering, 
Delighting  observer  with  winsome  wing. 
The  Nuthatch,  wee  creeper  'mong  yellow-pine, 
Gath'ring  pestful  beetles,  this  office  thine. 


The  crest  of  Post  Hill  in  the  Colorado  National  Forest,  three 
miles  to  the  east  of  the  village  of  Allenspark  on  the  great  State 
highway  that  enters  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  from  the 
southeast,  affords  the  traveler  coming  west  out  of  the  Middle  St. 
Vrain  canon,  one  of  the  grandest  views  to  be  seen  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains;  and  it  is  also  unique  in  the  fact  that  where  this  road 
crosses  Post  Hill,  the  hill  itself  forming  the  eastern  skyline  of  Aliens 
Park,  being  the  divide  between  the  Middle  and  North  St.  Vrain 
rivers,  the  dwellers  in  the  village  can  observe  at  that  point,  three 
miles  distant,  the  passing  of  all  road  traffic  in  and  out  of  the  region. Th  e 
hill  is  named  after  an  early  settler  who  lived  near  its  crest — Bill  Post. 

COMING  WEST  OVER  POST  HILL 

IT'S  a  scraggy  bit  of  country; 
Rocks,  and  sand,  and  scrubby  heath; 

And  the  pines  that  still  exist  there 

Barely  hang  on  with  their  teeth: 
For  the  wind  that  hits  that  hill  top 

Simply  blows  its  very  worst, 
Roaring  off  the  Western  ranges 

'Till  you'd  think  its  cheeks  would  burst. 
That's  the  way  it  is  in  winter, 

But  in  summer — Tis  a  dream; 
When  you're  coming  from  the  outside 

And  behold  the  noble  scene, 
That  spreads  westward  toward  the  sunset — 

Towards  the  mountains  calm  and  still — 
That  fills  your  utmost  vision 

Coming  West  over  bleak  Post  Hill. 

There  lies  the  nation's  Great  Divide, 

A  full  score  of  peaks  or  so; 
The  grandest  sight  in  Christendom — 

World  of  mountain,  ice,  and  snow; 
With  purple  forests  sentinel 

In  dark  canons  deep  below; 
With  Chief  s  Head,  Alice,  and  Meeker, 

Three  noble  snow  peaks  in  a  row; 
A  trinity  of  beetling  grandeur 

Bathed  in  golden  afterglow. 
And  you  pause  in  speechless  rapture — 

Feel  your  soul  expand  and  grow; 
As  you  look  westward  toward  the  sunset — 

Towards  the  mountains  calm  and  still — 
That  fills  your  utmost  vision 

Coming  West  over  bleak  Post  Hill. 

16 


I  can  see  the  whole  World  moving 

O'er  that  spot  of  eastern  sky. 
The  caravans  of  travelers — 

Happy  children,  drifting  by. 
In  my  fancy,  see  all  peoples, 

Trudging  slow  the  open  road; 
From  East  to  West  toward  Beulah  Land — 

To  their  place  of  last  abode. 
Ah!  Life  is  Yeast  and  Life's  a  Feast 

When  you  gaze  on  Sunrise  East; 
But  Life  is  Quest  for  Peace  and  Rest 

When  you  look  on  Sunset  West. 
And  I  never  knew  what  Big  Living  meant- 

To  get  Life's  fullest,  truest  fill; 
Till  I  watched  all  Creation  traveling — 

Coming  West  over  bleak  Post  Hill. 

I  like  a  road  that's  straight  ahead — 

That  turns  neither  left  nor  right; 
Just  like  the  path  to  Heaven's  gate, 

Clear  and  plain  in  honest  sight. 
I  feel  that  God  is  good  to  those 

Who  live  lives  in  open  view; 
For  all  the  World  might  better  be 

If  it  lived  as  simply  too. 
It's  different  in  the  country 

Where  there's  roads  on  every  side. 
It's  different  in  the  city 

Where  the  streets  stretch  far  and  wide. 
But  up  here  in  this  mountain  land 

There  is  only  one  road  still, 
And  that's  the  road  all  travel 

Coming  West  over  bleak  Post  Hill. 

At  dawn  comes  the  blessed  sunrise 

From  the  same  place  as  the  mail; 
Coming  West  over  bleak  Post  Hill 

As  if  it  knew  the  trail. 
I  tell  you,  its  gorgeous  greeting — 

This  bright,  warming,  golden  Sun, 
Just  stirs  the  heart  to  fellowship 

Like  as  if  you  knew  Some  One. 
Then  once  a  month  comes  that  full  Moon, 

Big  as  if  'twas  going  to  bust; 


17 


Greeting  you  with  its  great  broad  smile 

That  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  must. 
And  to  see  it  creeping,  rising, 

Right  off  Post  Hill  into  the  sky; 
It  just  makes  you  feel  so  happy 

When  you  see  it  wink  its  eye. 
I  don't  care  so  much  about  the  stars — 

There's  millions  of  them  to  see; 
They're  the  dandelions  of  heaven's  lawn, 

As  common  as  one,  two,  three. 
Yet  it's  nice  in  the  early  ev'ning 

To  see  them  peep  up  soft  and  still, 
And  leaving  the  road  and  climbing 

To  God-knows-where,  o'er  bleak  Post  Hill. 
Then  sometimes  I  get  to  thinking 

Of  the  One  that  looks  over  All. 
I  oft  think  I'll  see  Him  coming  West 

Over  Post  Hill— so  Wonderful! 
And  I  can  see  those  Judgment  angels — 

By  imag'ning  a  little  high. 
Makes  me  sort  of  shake  and  shiver 

To  know  Some  Day,  they'll  come  by. 
Then  I  stand  and  get  the  feeling 

That  I'm  going  to  look  my  best, 
When  precious  God-A'mighty 

Comes  over  Post  Hill  going  West. 

SAY'S  SPERMOPHILE 

SPERMOPHILE— classified  by  Thomas  Say, 
Of  Long's  party,  member,  Eighteen-twenty — 
The  mountain  ground-squirrel,  prolific  breed, 
Satisfying  darting  hawk  and  weasel's  need. 
In  winter,  'neath  the  ground  imprisoned,  holed, 
Till  April's  sun  warm  melts  the  icy  fold. 
To  Settler,  tame,  greedy,  gopher,  rodent; 
Infesting  bin,  and  store — on  forage  bent: 
Quantities  of  grain,  crammed  full  in  its  jaws, 
It  stores  in  cache  deep  hollowed  by  its  paws. 
Oft  the  delight  of  children  innocent, 
From  their  hands  nuts  taken  in  fat  content; 
Hands  empty,  will  their  pockets  cool  explore 
And  upright  on  its  haunches  beg  for  more. 
Tom  Say's  spermophile — ground-squirrel,  greedy-gut; 
In  spring,  welcomed — in  summer,  door  'gainst  him  shut. 


'MONG  THE  HILLS  OF  COLORADO 


MONG  the  hills  of  Colorado, 
By  a  hut  of  mountain  pine, 
There  I  lit  a  fire  of  Fellowship — 
There  I  dreamed  of  Love  divine. 

I  saw  a  wolf  upon  the  marge — 
A  bear,  and  panther  bold. 
"Ha!  Ha!,"  I  cried,  exultingly, 
"The  World-beasts  seek  my  fold!" 

For  one  was  stalking  Hunger  keen — 
My  board,  he  saw,  close  by. 
The  others,  Woe  and  Lust,  were  they — 
But  bright  my  fire  flamed  high. 

And  then  a  snake  upraised  its  head 
And  hissed  its  jealousy — 
That  Serpent,  old,  of  Sin  and  Death — 
Here  led  most  subtilely. 

Then  beat  my  heart  in  sympathy 
As  dear  Heaven  spread  the  board; 
I  fed  the  beasts — the  serpent  warmed — 
By  the  blessing  of  my  Lord. 

Ah!  'Tis  hard  to  master  evils 
In  the  cities  of  the  World, 
But  Love  can  conquer  triumphal 
Where  Fellowship  flames,  bright  curled. 

'Mong  the  hills  of  Colorado, 
Where  the  wilderness  spreads  broad; 
'Mong  the  hills  of  Colorado, 
There  I  found  the  living  God. 


19 


Aliens  Park,  which  is  within  the  boundaries  of  the  great  Colo 
rado  National  Forest,  is  also  the  southeastern  gateway  to  the  Rocky 
Mountain  National  Park,  the  boundaries  of  the  two  reservations 
being  less  than  a  mile  west  of  the  village.  It  is  a  beautiful  region 
of  mountain,  stream,  gulch,  grove,  and  meadow,  right  at  the  foot  of 
the  Front  Range  of  the  Rockies,  with  trails  leading  to  the  upper 
waters  of  the  North  and  Middle  St.  Vrain  rivers.  The  village  is  the 
center  of  a  community  of  hardy  mountain  folk  whose  lives  are  almost 
exclusively  devoted  to  the  serving  of  visitors  and  tourists.  Besides 
the  original  town-site  of  Aliens  Park,  homesteaded  about  1900  by 
George  Mack,  there  are  the  homesteads  of  Henry  Slaughter,  James 
Webber,  Harry  Jordan,  Stephen  Tregemba,  David  Dannels,  John 
F.  McCary,  Oscar  Rubendall,  George  W.  Sebern,  Albert  Roberts, 
Leslie  L.  Porter,  and  Frank  Walstrom. 

Aliens  Park  was  named  after  Alonzo  Nelson  Allen,  who,  on  a 
prospecting  trip  in  1864,  in  company  of  two  brothers  by  the  name  of 
Jackson  and  one,  Mr.  Beckwith,  blazed  a  trail  from  the  vicinity  of  the 
town  of  Ward  to  a  point  at  the  foot  of  Taylor  mountain  to  the  east 
of  the  village  which  now  bears  his  name.  Finding  what  they  thought 
was  an  excellent  prospect  of  mineral  and  which  they  named  the 
Mammoth  Lode,  they  built  a  cabin  and  worked  the  lode  that  winter. 
The  fireplace  which  they  built  still  stands  at  the  foot  of  Taylor,  a 
mute  and  eloquent  monument  of  those  sturdy  pioneers  of  a  former 
generation. 

About  1902,  another  prospecting  and  mining  period  ensued,  and 
which  led  to  the  permanent  establishment  of  the  village,  among  the 
founders  of  the  town-site  being  W.  W.  McCollister,  George  Pheiffer, 
C.  K.  Hirshfield-,  and  Charles  Spaulding.  Among  the  pioneers  who 
participated  in  the  settlement  of  the  region  at  this  time  and  later, 
must  be  mentioned,  George  Sebern,  Charles  Bradford,  William 
Emanuel,  Peter  Sites,  V.  H.  Rowley,  James  Scobee,  Daniel  Slaughter, 
William  Bishop,  Burns  Will,  Adelbar  and  Eugene  Webber,  Charles 
W.  Boynton,  J.  D.  Hacker,  Henry  Smith,  and  John  K.  Miller. 


THE  WOODS  OF  ALLENS 

A  I!  Can  we  forget,  dear  Stephen, 
Those  times  so  happy  and  so  free, 

When  we  roamed  the  Woods  of  Aliens 
With  the  butterfly  and  bee. 
By  the  brook  and  purling  streamlet, 
Where  the  moss  clings  to  the  tree; 
Where  Nature  shy  revealed  its  charms — 
Bloomed  so  fragrant,  sweet,  and  glee. 

20 


When  we  wandered  thru  the  Woods  of  Aliens, 

Dear  Stephen,  you  and  I. 
When  the  robin-reds  were  blithely  singing 

As  above  us  arched  the  sky. 
Then  the  world  was  smiling  bright  and  gladsome 

And  no  tear  was  in  our  eye; 
When  we  wandered  thru  the  Woods  of  Aliens, 

Dear  Stephen,  you  and  I. 

Those  were  days  we  had  no  sorrows — 

When  woodpecker  tapped  the  tree. 
When  the  squirrel  dropped  his  shells  upon  us 

From  the  spruce  boughs  saucily. 
When  the  breeze  gushed  from  the  canon 

And  we  heard  the  chick-a-dee- 
Those  dear  companions  innocent, 

Singing  low  and  happily. 

Those  were  days  when  life  was  Eden — 

When  the  dun  deer  ranged  the  lea. 
The  nuthatch  thronged  the  yellow  pines 

And  the  bluebirds  winged  gayly. 
It  was  then  we  loved  like  brothers 

In  a  land  of  Freedom  free; 
All  the  cares  of  world  forgotten 

In  the  Love  that  does  not  dee. 

When  we  wandered  thru  the  Woods  of  Aliens, 

Dear  Stephen,  you  and  I. 
When  the  robin-reds  were  blithely  singing 

As  above  us  arched  the  sky. 
Then  the  world  was  smiling  bright  and  gladsome 

And  no  tear  was  in  our  eye; 
When  we  wandered  thru  the  Woods  of  Aliens, 

Dear  Stephen,  you  and  I. 

STAY,  FRIEND— I  CANNOT  LET  YOU  GO 

STAY,  Friend — I  cannot  let  you  go; 
The  night  is  dark,  bleak  drives  the  wintry  snow. 
Stay,  Friend — Your  charms  on  me  bestow; 
Let  us  pass  the  night  beside  the  fireside  glow. 

21 


Friend,  God's  good  Years  speed  by.  Do  you  not  know, 
Men  should  seek  companionship,  here,  below? 
That  Word  is  sweetest  word  that  we  can  know — 
Dear  God,  Himself,  with  it,  is  all  aglow. 

Stay,  Friend — I  cannot  let  you  go; 
The  night  is  dark,  bleak  drives  the  wintry  snow. 
Stay,  Friend — Your  charms  on  me  bestow; 
Let  us  pass  the  night  beside  the  fireside  glow. 


THE  SIGNET 

CLOUD  arch  of  white  and  gold; 
Three  peaks  inset — Meeker,  Lady,  Longs, 
Against  a  field  of  blue: 
Signet  of  grandeur  bold! 
Trinity  of  glory — Triple  prongs 
Sharp  stamped  on  sky,  their  view. 

How  often,  this  stupendous  signature 
Is  writ  aloft  the  Park,  as  tho  Nature, 
In  proud  autocracy  of  great  queen-hood, 
Has  set  a  seal  upon  her  solitude. 


THE  GUIDE 

IF  you  were  come  to  a  wonderful  land — 
A  land  you  had  never  known; 
And  met  a  man  there,  who,  with  pointing  hand, 
Had  made  that  land  all  your  own; 
I  deem  that  the  man,  the  Guide  you  had  found — 
.  You  would  cherish  his  honest  fame, 
As  one  who  had  shown  you  Life  without  bound- 
Where  the  soul  shines  bright  in  the  flame, 
Of  the  Wilderness  pure,  where  truths  endure; 
A  life  that  is  lived  in  God's  name. 

He  said,  as  you  vaulted  your  saddle  gay, 
When  over  the  mountain  broke  the  new  Day; 
"I'm  leading  you  to  a  beautiful  land, 
A  land  of  the  sun  and  the  sky. 

22 


I'm  taking  you  to  a  solitude  strand, 
A  strand  where  the  alp  zephyrs  sigh. 

I'm  showing  you  a  region  most  grand, 
A  region,  vast,  lofty,  and  high; 

I'm  guiding  you  where  the  Great  Mountains  stand 
Among  scenes  that  can  never  die; 

A  prospect  so  fair — you'll  say  God  lives  there; 

In  joy,  the  truth  of  my  words  you'll  declare." 

So  you  followed  him  off,  and  hit  the  trail, 

Little  heeding  his  boasting,  simple  tale. 

You  followed  him  into  his  beautiful  land — 
You  drank  of  its  sun  and  its  sky. 

You  rode  to  the  shore  of  that  solitude  strand — 
Where  the  zephyrs  on  you  did  sigh. 

You  entered  the  gates  of  that  region  grand — 
Gazed  aloft  on  its  summits  high. 

You  traveled  to  where  the  Great  Mountains  stand- 
Viewed  those  scenes  that  can  never  die; 

And  affirmed  full  fair — that  God  does  live  there — 

The  words  of  your  Guide,  most  true,  you  declare. 

Now  that  you've  seen  that  most  wonderful  land — 

That  land  you  had  never  known; 
And  met  a  man  there,  who,  with  pointing  hand, 

Made  that  land  your  very  own; 
I  deem  that  the  man,  the  Guide  you  thus  found — 

You  will  honor  his  honest  fame, 
As  one  who  has  shown  you  Life  without  bound — 

Where  the  soul  shines  bright  in  the  flame, 
Of  the  Wilderness  pure,  where  truths  endure; 

A  life  that  is  lived  in  God's  name. 


GLIST'NING  SOUL 

GLIST'NING  Soul! 
Like  this  snowy  mountain  gleam, 
Toward  Heaven's  fairest  sky. 
Uplifted  be, 
As  this  pure  alp, 
Above  Life's  storm  clouds  high. 


23 


SKY  BLUE 


T'VE  seen  a  maid— I  worship  her — 
5       She  lives  high  in  the  sky; 

But  all  I  can  see  of  her  beauty 

Is  the  beam  of  her  lovely  eye. 
They  are  deep  and  bright,  of  heav'nly  hue; 

They  reflect  the  sun  and  the  moon; 
They're  the  same  in  the  deep  night  gloaming 

As  they  are  in  the  highest  noon. 
So  I  sing  to  her  from  my  bit  of  earth 

As  she  smiles  in  the  morning  view; 
For  I  love  her  best  when  the  Dawn  gives  birth 

And  I  call  her  my  own  Sky-Blue. 

Blue!    Blue!    Sweet  Sky-Blue— 
I  love  you  fond  and  true. 
Across  the  far  hills 
And  above  the  white  clouds, 
I'm  looking  at  you — Sky-Blue! 

This  maid  is  fair — A  Goddess,  she — 

She  lives  high  in  the  sky; 
When  she  bathes,  or  robes,  or  combs  her  hair, 

She  veils  with  a  cloud  passing  by. 
Her  eyes  shine  the  same  in  mirrored  lake 

And  in  the  still  pools  of  the  stream; 
They  gleam  and  glint  when  the  waters  stir — 

From  the  spring  where  I  drink,  they  beam. 
So  I  sing  to  her  from  my  bit  of  earth 

As  she  smiles  in  the  morning  view; 
For  I  love  her  best  when  the  Dawn  gives  birth 

And  I  call  her  my  own  Sky-Blue. 

Blue!     Blue!     Sweet  Sky-Blue— 
I  love  you  fond  and  true. 
Across  the  far  hills 
And  above  the  white  clouds, 
I'm  looking  at  you — Sky-Blue! 


24 


It  is  only  because  that  wonderful  mountain,  the  Twin  Sisters, 
standing  almost  exactly  parallel  to  the  Front  Range  and  the  Longs 
Peak  group  of  mountains,  which  follow  an  almost  due  north  and 
south  direction  in  this  region,  and  also  because  of  its  great  elevation, 
being  only  a  few  hundred  feet  less  in  height  than  the  general  altitude 
of  the  Continental  Divide,  and  in  both  instances  the  only  such  peak 
in  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park,  that  such  beautiful  phenom 
ena  as  the  Three  Sunsets,  The  Mist  Dragon,  Purples,  and  others,  are 
possible.  A  prominent  civil  engineer,  impressed  with  the  remarkable 
fact  that  the  Vale  of  Elkanah  lies  exactly  with  the  four  points  of  the 
compass,  called  it  "Meridian  Valley." 

From  the  base  of  either  of  the  loftier  slopes  of  the  Vale  and 
high  enough  for  correct  perspective,  say  200  feet,  the  Twin  Sisters  on 
the  east,  or  Estes  Cone  and  the  higher  peak  slopes  on  the  west,  the 
opposite  side  appears  as  a  vast  stage  exhibiting  the  forest  cover  in 
its  different  botanical  zones  clear  to  timberline  and  presenting 
miles  and  miles  of  background  and  superb  scenery  in  closest  view, 
and  against  which  is  continually  acted  the  Protean  dramas  of  Wind, 
Rain,  and  Storm;  with  sublime  Morning  and  Evening  spectacles  of 
Dawn  and  Sunset;  and  at  night,  the  nocturnal  ballets  of  Luna  and  the 
Stars. 

THE  THREE  SUNSETS 

rT^HREE  sunsets,  to  the  glory  of  God, 

|^        Sweep  the  Vale  with  their  parting  ray. 
Three  glorias  bright  of  cosmic  flame 

Close  at  night  the  Portals  of  Day. 
One  burns  aloft  on  the  western  rim — 

On  Lady,  and  Meeker,  and  Longs — 
A  blaze  of  fires  on  their  peak  top  pyres 

'Mid  the  vespers  of  sweet  bird  songs. 
A  full  hour  later,  a  second  one, 

Where  the  Twin  Sisters  east,  extend; 
From  the  Vale's  deep  bed  to  heights  instead, 

The  beams  of  the  sun  ascend. 
This  second  one — the  lingering  one — 

Glows  ruddy  and  red  to  the  gaze; 
Its  fires  gleam  softly  as  embers  bright, 

Where  the  western  ones  were  in  blaze. 
For  a  space,  the  Vale,  in  dying  light, 

Stands  deep  in  shadow  and  solemn  gloom; 
Till  the  clouds  above — still  in  the  sun — 

Catch  fire  from  the  second  sunset's  bloom; 
Then  sweep  the  flames  up  the  Peaks  of  Sky — 

The  Vale  smiles  again  in  bright  glows; 
Tis  a  third  sunset — celestial  one — 

Which  expires  in  blushes  of  rose. 

25 


DEER 


HUSH!  Here  is  the  Herd— the  timid  Blacktails, 
Nibbling  the  herbage  which  the  slope  avails. 
Deer — moving  line  of  branching  antlers  green; 
Copse  of  living  velvet,  dun  forms  between. 
Wild  do€  and  buck  which  the  Oberland  boasts, 
Bright  animating  crags  and  mountain  coasts; 
Swift  foot  that  flees  with  danger-scented  wind; 
Sharp  hoof  stamping  death  to  foes  of  its  kind. 
Grace  and  beauty,  bounding,  they  lend  the  scene; 
Other  office — food,  cougar  or  hunter  keen. 
Form  loved  of  the  ranger,  saddle  and  haunch; 
There  in  the  glade — mark  for  one  rifle  launch. 
See!  There — where  the  quakers  stand  by  the  spring; 
Yon  big  buck,  square,  side-on,  quiet  feeding. 
Steady — one  lone,  bing — reverberating — 
Loud  shattering  the  air — long  echoing 
'Mong  the  hollows,  canons;  booming  far  hills. 
Sound — which  with  fear,  wild  life,  sinister,  fills. 
Ah!  There  is  no  doubt — that  one  single  shot 
Has  found  the  roe's  red  heart — mark  careful  sought. 
Miles  away,  such  a  sound,  not  repeated, 
To  settler  tells,  hunter  true,  his  prized  dead 
Lies  prone,  quivering,  for  instant  bleeding; 
Venison  is  there,  hunter  delighting. 

Had  there  been  other  shots,  more,  repeated, 
With  low  laugh,  the  settler  knows,  defeated 
Is  some  novice,  wasting  lead  and  powder; 
Of  the  town  he,  farm  beef  his  true  fodder. 
But  that  solitary  shot— God!     the  thrill— 
Which  sweeps  the  settler's  heart  at  the  lone  kill, 
Generations  bred.     Mighty  stags  have  fled 
From  his  deadly  tread — English  poacher  dread. 
Then,  on  Virginia's  shore,  colonial, 
Native  deer  his  venison,  provincial; 
A  free  man  loosed  amid  the  vasty  West, 
His  children  conquering  the  Wilderness 
To  mid-Continent  ranges — then,  across — 
Down  to  the  oceans  of  the  albatross. 
The  Colonial,  Settler,  Pioneer 

26 


American,  hunting  the  freeborn  deer; 
Which  here,  protected  in  the  Nation's  park, 
Multiply  and  stock,  for  hunter's  fair  mark, 
Those  regions  open  to  the  noble  sport. 
Here  preserved,  for  the  future's  sure  support, 
In  their  native  haunts,  for  visitor's  cheer; 
Free,  in  full  liberty,  the  Blacktail  Deer. 

THE  FLOCKS  OF  THE  SKIES 

HERE  come  the  Clouds,  the  Flocks  of  the  Skies. 
From  the  deep  Gorge  they  scamper  and  rise. 
At  Noon,  in  pastures  of  azure  and  blue, 
They'll  feed,  overhead,  in  the  Vale. 
At  Night,  'mong  the  Peaks,  they'll  cluster  and  fold, 

Fast  asleep  on  the  rocking  Gale. 
In  the  Dawn,  when  the  Sun,  rosy  and  gold, 

Chases  the  Moon,  ghostly  and  pale; 
They'll  awake,  alarmed,  and  cross  the  Divide, 

And  on,  'till  they  reach  Ocean's  tide. 
Clouds,  pretty  Clouds,  gay  Flocks  of  the  Skies; 
Return,  pretty  Clouds,  with  the  glad  sunrise. 

SONG  OF  THE  OWL 

THERE'S  a  delicate  hush 
At  the  end  of  the  day, 
While  yet  the  light 
Clings  to  the  West; 
'Tis  the  hour  of  Gloaming 

With  charms  shadowy, 
Which  cradles  the  Day 
To  its  rest. 

Then  there  rises  afar 

A  sweet  rhapsody; 
Low  its  note — 

A  hushed  melody; 
Tis  the  call  of  the  owl 

From  the  shade  of  a  tree, 
To  its  mate — 

Loved  affinity. 

27 


"Who-oo,  Darling  of  mine, 
The  sun  has  flown  to  its  nest. 
Who-oo,  Come  and  incline 
Thy  head  on  my  downy  breast. 
Who-oo,  Creature  divine, 
Fly  forth  in  thy  loveliness." 

The  answer  comes  clear — 

Song  the  fairies  hold  dear — 
Of  famed  fowl 

The  gods  held  in  fear: 
Loved  of  Pallas  Athene, 

Inspired   seer; 
Great  goddess,  whom 

Tales  ancient  revere. 

"Who-oo,  Husband  so  bright, 
Our  brood  for  supper  prepares. 
Who-oo,  Can't  you  bring  night — 
Open  the  window  of  stars? 
Who-oo,  While  it  is  light, 
Abroad,  my  flight  hardly  dares." 

Then  they  call  and  who-oo 

Until  tender  Twilight 
Sinks  sweet  in 

The  arms  of  Night; 
When  they  fly  with  swift  wing 

To  a  bough  that  holds  two, 
And  sing  this  duet, 

"Who-oo-oo." 

"Who-oo,  List  to  our  tune, 
Creatures  of  Night  merrily. 
Who-oo,  Come  Stars  and  the  Moon 
Over  the  hill  cheerily. 
Who-oo,  We  sing  and  we  croon 
'Till  our  hunting  eyes  can  see. 
Who-oo,  who-oo, 
The  Owls  of  the  Wood  are  we." 


28 


I  CANNOT  CHEAT  MY  SOUL  OF  THAT 
SWEET  PRAYER 


THE  twilight  shadows  fall, 
And  many  duties  call; 
Yet  I  forsake  them  all 
In  Adoration's  thrall — 
I  cannot  cheat  my  soul 

Of  that  sweet  prayer, 
Which  each  day  I  breathe 
On  Ev'ning's  solemn  air. 


SOLITUDE  AND  THE  GRAY  DUSK 

AS  the  Poet  emerged  from  his  humble  hut 
/-\  To  bid  adieu  to  the  gods  of  Day, 

To  the  dark'ning  clouds,  the  mountains  dim, 

In  gloom  since  the  sun's  last  ray, 
He  saw  on  the  hill  where  the  Evening  Gods 

Are  wont  to  muse,  to  brood,  and  to  pray, 
Two  noble  forms  of  loved  shades, 

One  purple  clad,  the  other  gray; 
And  one  was  the  form  of  Solitude, 

The  other,  Gray  Dusk  of  Day. 

Poet.    "Hail  to  thee,  gods! 
I  come  from  the  hut 
To  worship  and  to  greet, 
Gray  Dusk  of  Day  and  Solitude — 
I  kneel  at  your  lovely  feet." 

Dusk.  "I  am  the  Gray  Dusk  mother,  son, 
My  hour  of  day  has  come; 
While  the  owl  and  the  wolf 
Cry  from  yonder  wood 
My  vigil  is  hardly  done. 
Methinks  I  still  hear  the  night-hawk's  cry 
In  yon  upper  dusky  sky; 
The  last  white  cloud  in  the  highest  heaven 
Blanches  yet  in  the  Day's  dim  leaven." 

29 


Sol.       "Peace  be  with  you,  son  of  mine, 
I'll  seek  thee  at  that  hour, 
When  Gray  Dusk  leaves  for 
Her  deep  hill  cave 
And  Night  brings  her  starry  bow'r." 

Poet.    "Mothers,  mine,  I  leave  you,  dears, 
Accept  my  love  as  of  yore; 
Without  thee,  gods,  I'd  despair  of  song 
And  my  pen  would  miss  thee  sore. 
You've  given  me  shade  to  etch  the  light — 
You  have  given  me  courage  bold — 
You've  given  me  thoughts  which  Day's  bright 

glare 

Was  too  strong  to  sketch  Fancy's  delicate  hold. 
You've  given  me  heart,  and  faith,  and  cheer, 
And  truths  that  will  never  grow  old; 
God  bless  you,  mothers,  dear,  of  mine, 
With  love  your  forms  I  enfold." 

The  Gray  Dusk  walked  to  her  cave  in  the  hill 
As  the  owl  hushed  her  song  in  the  wood, 

And  Night  came  in  with  the  moon  and  the  stars 
And  greeted  Solitude. 

ANOTHER  BEAUTIFUL  DAY  HAS  GONE 

A  NOTHER  beautiful  Day  has  gone— 

Fair,  glorious,  and  bright. 
Another  celestial  Sun  has  run — 
Sunk  in  the  arms  of  Night. 
In  Thy  name,  Oh!  God!  I  walked  this  day, 

With  Christ  Jesus,  your  dear  Son's. 
I  kept  the  Faith  of  your  priests  and  nuns — 
Oh!  Joy!  That  I've  found  the  Way! 

HOUNDS  OF  THE  DAWN 

SPEED  on — Great  Winds,  rushing  toward  the  Dawn; 
Roaring  o'er  the  summits  of  the  crest: 
Before  you  the  Plainward  gorges  yawn — 
'Neath  you,  sleeping  woodlands  are  at  rest. 
Surge  on — Ye  wild  Gustings,  Red  Dawn  to  greet; 
Blow  your  piney  zephyrs  upon  her  rosy  feet. 

30 


Fly  on — Great  Dogs,  bounding  o'er  the  Way; 

Rude  assaulting  all  the  mountain  vales; 
Your  cry  heralding  the  birth  of  Day, 

Bayed  to  chasms,  rivers,  verdured  dales. 
Surge  on — Ye  wild  Gustings,  Red  Dawn  to  greet; 
Blow  your  piney  zephyrs  upon  her  rosy  feet. 

Rush  on — Great  Hounds,  springing  up  the  East; 

Loosed  from  the  canoned  kennels  of  the  West; 
Baying  deep  the  howl  of  crying  beast; 

Frightening  Aurora  from  her  nest. 
Surge  on — Ye  wild  Gustings,  Red  Dawn  to  greet; 
Blow  your  piney  zephyrs  upon  her  rosy  feet. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  WOLVES 

A'  the  foot  of  the  Twins  on  a  ledge  of  stone 
The  King  of  the  Wolves  greets  the  rising  moon; 
He  calls  to  his  subjects  from  his  rude  throne 
And  lonely  the  mountains  echo  his  tune. 

"Oh!  Moon!  Beautiful  is  your  misty  light. 
Beneath  it  I'll  summon  my  pack  in  sight, 
For  the  council  lit  by  your  white  flames  bright; 
Oh!  Moon!  I  am  King  of  the  Wolves  tonight!" 

Weird  and  eery  that  lone  warrior  cry 
Echoes  the  glades  'neath  the  brightening  sky; 
O'er  the  deep  snows  and  the  drifted  wilds, 
On  which  the  moon  beams  her  gilded  smiles. 
The  call  of  the  Wolf  King  o'er  glen  and  crag 
Chills  the  red  blood  of  the  listening  stag; 
While  answering,  cries  the  far  scattered  band, 
On  every  hand,  where  they  howling  stand; 
And  figures  dark  overleap  the  white  snow, 
Fleeing  swift  to  the  council  rock  below. 

Again  the  King  calls;  he  assures  the  band 
He  has  heard  them  answering  the  command; 
Then  to  the  moon,  which  now  on  him  full  shines, 
He  lifts  his  bay  to  the  mate  he  divines. 

31 


"Oh!  Moon!  Bring  to  me  my  beautiful  queen, 
Who  roams  the  loved  Vale  'neath  your  silv'ry  sheen; 
The  Queen  of  the  Wolves,  my  wonderful  Mate; 
Oh!  Moon!  I  am  King  of  the  Wolves  most  great!" 

Then  bounds  a  black  shadow  to  the  throne  rock, 
The  Queen  of  the  Wolves,  the  pride  of  the  Pack. 
At  the  foot  of  the  Master  she  bows  low; 
He  licks  her  form  in  the  moon's  white  glow. 
Then  other  dark  objects  spring  swiftly  near; 
The  furry  band  gathers  in  subject  fear, 
'Till  at  last  the  whole  kingdom  gathered  nigh 
Yields  allegiance  to  their  Sovereign  high. 
'Tis  then  the  dread  Monarch  the  council  ope's — 
Far  o'er  the  wilderness  ring  the  wild  notes. 

"Oh!  Moon!  I  am  King  of  the  Wolves  tonight! 
Our  council  we  ope  'neath  your  friendly  light. 
Look  down  on  the  Wolves  in  their  hunting  might. 
Oh!  Moon!  We  worship  You,  our  Goddess  bright!" 

IT'S  A  COMING-HEAR  IT  BELLOW 

IT'S  a  coming — Hear  it  bellow! 
Fearful,  dreaded,  Western  gale; 
It's  broke  loose  from  howling  Hades — 
Sounds  like  all  Hell  was  on  the  trail. 
See  that  snow  in  fury  driven 

O'er  that  mighty  mountain  wall. 
God  A'Mighty!  See  it  coming — 
Fiend  of  Storm,  diabolical! 

Bring  in  wood — Bring  fresh  water. 
Take  in  every  sail; 
For  the  Cabin's  going  to  stagger 
When  its  rafters  feel  that  gale. 

It's  a  rolling — Hear  it  roaring! 

Hear  the  forest  groan  and  wail; 
It  will  almost  blow  the  skin  off 

The  peaks  that  rim  Elkanah's  vale. 
See  that  smother — Feel  that  pressure, 

Which  lifts  gravel,  ice,  and  snow; 
0!  Wild  will  be  the  carnival 

In  Elkanah's  vale  below! 

32 


Bar  that  door — Close  that  shutter. 
Tend  to  each  detail; 
For  the  Cabin's  going  to  tremble 
When  that  Demon  hits  the  Vale. 

THE  GREAT  ARM  OF  WINTER 

HT'HE  Great  Arm  of  Winter  reaches  now  o'er  the 
I          Crest; 

Once  more  the  Pleiads  are  gripping  the  West: 
Those  fingers  so  cold,  leading  huge  Taurus,  the  Bull, 
Bright  Aldebaran,  the  Hyades,  full. 

I've  a  hut  that  is  snug — 
Wood  for  the  hearth. 

I  have  books  on  the  shelf- 
Food  without  dearth. 

I  have  clothes  that  are  warm — 
I've  a  beard  in  the  birth. 

Avaunt!  then,  cold  Winter — 
I'm  a  King  on  the  Earth! 

I  fear  not  those  far  fingers  so  be  jeweled  with  Stars; 
I  care  not  the  iced  Glove  driving  Auriga's  bright  Car; 
Nor  Orion,  his  frost-spitting  Dog,  trailing,  afar; 
Fie  on  you,  cold  Winter,  I  have  put  up  the  bars. 

I've  a  hut  that  is  snug — 

Wood  for  the  hearth. 
I  have  books  on  the  shelf — 

Food  without  dearth. 
I  have  clothes  that  are  warm — 

I've  a  beard  in  the  birth. 
Avaunt!  then,  cold  Winter — 

I'm  a  King  on  the  Earth! 

SOFTLY  SNOWING  MOOD  OF  NATURE 

SOFTLY  snowing  mood  of  Nature — 
White  flakes  falling,  more  gently  than  the 

Coo  of  a  tender  mating  dove. 
White  flakes  laid  o'er  the  brown,  autumn-dappled 

Land  like  a  silken  robe. 
White  flakes,  spread  lightly  as  a  mantle, 
O'er  meadows  low  and  silent  grove. 

33 


Softly  snowing  mood  of  Nature — 

A  sweet  humidity  draws  the  scent  of  earth 

And  herbage  from  the  ground; 
The  low,  gray  clouds,  sail  on  sail, 

As  galleon'd  Argosies,  ocean  bound, 
Loose  their  fleece,  spirit-like, 

On  every  castled  crag,  without  a  sound. 

FAITH 

A  up  I  gaze  at  Heaven's  stars, 
Then  glance  down  at  my  feet, 
I've  viewed  the  awful  interval 
From  Earth  to  Infinite. 
To  ken  those  planets,  suns,  and  moons — 
Where  dwells  One  I  must  meet; 
Oh!  God!  all  strength,  all  virtues  fail, 
Save  Faith,  my  Angel  bright. 

ELK 

HERE  come  the  antlered  bulls,  the  calves,  the 
cows; 
Here,  where  verdant  herbage  attracts  their 

browse. 

Wapiti!  Once,  by  their  Creator  spread, 
Sea  to  Sea,  o'er  Continent  watershed. 
Now  shrunk  to  Rocky  Mountain  dwelling  bands; 
E'en  there,  close  protection  by  jealous  hands 
Is  need,  to  stem  the  murder  of  its  kind: 
Hunters,  damned — who  kill  e'en  for  teeth  to  find 
Of  this  stricken  breed,  now  rescued  timely — 
From  this  Park  to  again  stock,  free,  nobly, 
Those  public  slopes  and  pastures  of  the  West 
By  Nation  ope'd  to  Recreation  blest. 
Oh!  Friends!  Is  it  not  sweet?  most  grandly  meet? 
That  these  wondrous  herds,  once  so  wildly  fleet; 
Antelope,  bison,  elk,  deer,  mountain-sheep, 
Feeding  Settler,  Maine  to  Oregon's  deep; 
Fresh  meat,  plentiful,  'till  domestic  breed, 
Imported  from  abroad,  filled  Nation's  need: 
Should,  in  Meridian  of  this  Free  Land, 
Preserved  be — protected  with  loving  hand. 

34 


Bless'd  Nation!  Atlas  of  World  Liberty! 

From  the  wilderness,  a  Government  free, 

Raised  open  to  the  skies  exaltedly — 

Bright  Fane  of  Faith,  Deed,  and  high  Destiny; 

Of  late  Thou  hast  vowed,  that  each  primitive  band, 

Created  of  God,  feeding  Pioneer  grand; 

Shall,  with  appreciative  worship,  full, 

Indicative  of  gratitude  faithful, 

Be  reestablished  with  numbers  ample, 

Wild  free  state — original  ensemble — 

To  show,  to  prove — to  America's  youth, 

Their  sires  have  not  forsook  the  ancient  Truth! 

As  long  as  antlered  beauty  moists  the  eye 

With  grateful  vision  of  the  Master  high, 

The  noble  Stag  whose  flesh  fed  us  e'er  we  died — 

Those  anxious  years — Plymouth  to  Pacific's  tide; 

The  lordly  species  of  the  Elk  shall  live — 

Protected  by  our  love  and  law  shall  thrive; 

Here,  in  the  bosom  of  the  mountain  West — 

Lord  of  the  Crag,  rearing  his  antlered  crest. 


35 


The  range  storm  is  a  period  of  local  weather  disturbance  which 
occupies  many  weeks  of  the  mountain  winter  and  is  so  called  by 
the  mountaineer  because  its  action  is  so  closely  confined  to  the  main 
range  itself,  rarely  extending  much  beyond  the  foot  of  the  Front  Range 
of  the  Rockies.  For  days  at  a  time,  weeks,  in  some  instances,  snows 
of  all  descriptions,  the  finest  flinty  frost  flakes  to  soft  pellets,  which 
patter  smartly  on  the  roof,  are  discharged  from  the  vast  cloud  canopy 
that  mantles  the  range  on  these  occasions,  and  which  an  unceasing 
wind,  playing  every  note  that  Aeolus  can  sound  from  the  softest 
soughing  zephyr  to  the  roaring  of  the  wildest  gale,  blows,  sifts,  and 
deposits,  in  endless  fantasy  over  the  region  that  lies  immediately  at 
foot  of  the  great  peaks  of  the  Continental  Divide  and  the  higher 
foothills. 

Often,  in  the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  this  phenomenon,  for  many  days 
at  a  time,  presents  Winter,  snowy,  blustering,  and  bleak,  on  the 
western  slopes  of  the  Vale;  and  on  the  east,  Summer,  with  smiling 
sky,  bright  sun,  and  perfect  calm,  reigns  serene;  while  directly  over 
head,  the  rays  of  the  sun  meet  the  falling  snows,  in  which  medium 
they  quickly  evaporate. 

Little  attention  is  paid  by  the  mountaineer  to  these  storms  and 
they  do  not  deter  him  from  his  regular  duties,  as  the  temperatures  are 
usually  mild  and  the  snows  light,  for  it  is  remarkable,  that  in  spite 
of  the  constant  and  often  considerable  quantities  of  snow  flying  in 
the  air,  yet  it  is  rare  that  enough  falls  which  will  bear  measurement, 
it  seeming  to  melt  or  evaporate  almost  as  it  falls,  due,  probably,  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  constantly  blown  eastward  into  the  path  of  the 
sun  and  there  absorbed.  However,  if  the  wind  attains  sufficient 
velocity,  vast  volumes  of  old  snow  are  brought  down  from  the  high 
range  and  deposited  in  the  deep  woods  of  the  lower  obcrland. 

In  January,  1914,  Longs  Peak  and  its  neighboring  crests  .were 
hidden  for  three  weeks  from  the  gaze  of  the  dwellers  in  Estes  Park 
village  by  a  prolonged  range  storm  following,  after  a  period  of  clear 
weather,  the  great  snow  storm  of  early  December,  1913. 

The  cloud  mantle  of  the  range  storm  so  wonderfully  envelops  the 
range  as  to  suggest  a  sense  of  profound  mystery.  The  whole  range, 
the  constant  familiar  of  the  mountaineer,  who  turns  to  it  instinc 
tively  day  and  night  to  observe  its  endless  expressions  of  change  and 
beauty,  is  so  completely  hidden  from  his  view  by  cloud  and  flying 
snow  and  for  such  long  periods  at  the  prevalance  of  a  prolonged 
range  storm,  as  to  cause  him  to  often  look  anxiously  and  longingly 
for  the  reappearance  of  the  familiar  peaks. 


THE  RANGE  STORM 

HUGE  borean  canopy — the  Range  Storm— 
Mant'ling  with  wintry  white  the  Great  Divide; 
Wrapping,  as  with  a  robe  of  eider-down, 
Bare  naked  slopes  of  far  stretched  mountain  side. 
At  dawn,  from  this  hovering  world  of  cloud, 
Steal  wild  winds,  not  rough,  but  softly  quiet, 

36 


Puffing  feath'ry  snows  like  fleece  o'er  the  Vale; 

Then,  storming  the  sun  with  sudden  riot, 

Squalls,  mists,  and  steamy  vaprous  filaments 

Propelled  are,  toward  the  awakened  god — 

Pale  crested  scouts  of  skirmish  flying  east, 

With  banked  gray  masses  west,  'round  Storm's  abode. 

Ever  constant,  never  ceasing,  sounds  a  roar — 

Wind,  that  beats  like  surf  on  a  far  off  shore. 

Whole  days  pass  in  a  carnival  of  Gale — 

Winds,  surging,  sounding  wild  the  mountains  o'er: 

Aeolian  cadences  of  piquant  air, 

Harmonies  rare  of  distant  regions  fair; 

Full  choruses  of  all  the  winds  that  blow — 

Roaring  bassos  like  a  herd's  mad  bellow. 

Speak  to  it,  question  it,  it  ne'er  replies, 

Save  with  snow  and  the  surge  that  never  dies. 

Challenge  it,  implore  it,  whoever  tries, 

Only  looks  mute  askance  of  stormy  skies. 

Fearful  tho  it  breaks  on  far  mountain  crest, 

Softly,  oft  times,  with  zephyr's  sweet  caress, 

It  wafts  within  the  Vale  a  tenderness 

Which  lulls  the  weary  soul  to  lovely  rest. 

Brightly  the  mounting  sun  thrusts  golden  shafts 
Down  into  those  regions  thinned  to  mist, 
And  all  aflame  the  peaks  a  moment  gleam, 
Like  sudden  light  flung  on  a  maiden's  breast; 
Yet  always  revealing  some  virgin  shroud, 
A  privacy,  secret  rare,  concealed  there; 
Some  sacred  shrine  dear  to  the  assembled  gods, 
Piled  high  with  fleecy  textures  of  the  air. 
The  light  fades,  massed  clouds  repel  the  blows, 
And  all  abroad  Storm's  panoplies  are  flung, 
Repairing  breach  on  breach  of  golden  fire 
Cast  gleaming  downward  by  the  flaming  sun. 
All  thru  the  noons,  illuminations  bright, 
Mark  the  sun's  battle  with  the  swirling  white; 
Gods  of  cloud  shield  their  tabernacle  dear 
While  gods  of  light  grow  weary  of  the  fight. 
Then  hours  grow  late  and  dusky  dim  for  war — 
The  golden  god  glows  fainter  on  the  crest; 
One  vast  eruption  of  his  dying  fire — 
'Tis  sunset  in  the  valleys  of  the  West. 

37 


Then  a  nearer,  blearer  wind  slow  rises, 

Aeolus  blows  a  soughing  dirgeful  sound; 

The  canopy  contracts  on  crag  and  steep 

As  at  night  a  blanket  is  closer  wound. 

With  the  sun  gone  down  and  full  darkness  nigh, 

A  glance  on  high  reveals  a  dismal  lower: 

Amid  the  ashen  mists  and  driving  cloud 

The  white  snow  dunes  of  winter  ghostly  tower, 

And  shapes — dim,  gray,  apparitions  appear 

As  the  drear  winds  rise  higher  and  higher. 

The  spectral  peaks  peer  askance  of  the  stars 

Till  the  Moon,  gilding  the  East  in  pale  fire, 

Slow  mounts  the  World  crest  to  her  sovran  throne, 

And  bathes  with  silver  bright  that  canopy 

Of  storm  and  wind  which  hold  the  western  lea, 

Wrapping  the  Range  in  brooding  mystery. 

For  mystery  is,  at  all  times,  its  mood; 

Suggestions  subtile — not  to  be  withstood; 

Not  to  be  confounded  with  merely  stress 

Of  wind  and  cloud — but  a  great  Spirit  form 

Is  suggested  to  the  empire  of  Mind, 

Which  Thought  e'er  seeks,  but  Thought  can  never  find. 

A  delicate  humidity  oft  blows, 

E'en  tho  accompanied  by  falling  snows: 

From  off  those  slopes  that  bear  the  conifers, 

An  aromatic  scent  of  res'nous  spruce 

Is  wafted  from  the  forest  interludes, 

As  warm  sun  and  melted  snow  sprays  induce 

The  odors  of  the  trees  abroad  the  air 

To  spicy  mix  with  smell  of  humid  ground, 

Which  the  beaming  sun  and  wet  misting  snow 

Freshen  to  earth  herbage  where  sods  abound. 

Softly,  a  sweet  breath  of  Orient  fair, 

Seems  to  dim  haunt  the  oft  warm  waves  of  air 

That  sudden  sweep  the  swirling  storm-beat  slopes 

As  a  burst  of  sun  with  radiant  glare 

Fires  the  Western  wall;  and  blooms  of  roses, 

Waving  palms,  seem  imminent  on  that  crest: 

That  canopy  of  spreading  cloud  sometime 

Has  banked  the  tropics  of  the  West — 

From  far  Japan,  from  India,  floating  free, 

Here  changed  by  wintry  altitude's  decree; 

38 


Yet  forgetful,  till  the  enchanting  sun 
Warms  it  intox'ant  to  the  oldjdegree. 
Perhaps — perhaps,  'tis  this  latent  warmth, 
Which  gives  it  air  of  charming  mystery; 
And  which,  in  spite  the  winds  of  winter  cold, 
Yields  a  fragrant  nostril  sweetly  balmy. 

Tis  midnight,  the  moon,  long  since  engulfed 

By  storm,  has  soared  to  the  Pacific  sea. 

The  wind  now  blows  the  restlessness  of  gale, 

As  tho  stirred  by  suspicious  jealousy; 

And  all  enswathed  the  Cabin  is  by  snows, 

Drifting,  the  white  sands  of  winter,  drear,  bleak, 

Brought  down,  o'er  miles  of  crusted  wilderness, 

In  swishing  volumes  from  the  smothered  peak; 

Grinding,  sifting  dismal  o'er  Cabin  roof, 

Flung  on  in  billows  to  the  lowest  gulch — 

Soft  thudding  'gainst  windows  like  spray  dashed  surf, 

O'erflowing  forest  floors  with  icy  mulch. 

Yet,  like  mariner  whose  bark  is  snug  trimmed — 

Helm  set  to  ride  a  not  unprosp'rous  gale; 

In  the  Cabin  the  sleeper's  eyes  are  dimmed, 

He  sinks  to  rest  in  bosom  of  the  Vale; 

While  'neath  the  Range  Storm's  misty  canopy 

The  Wind  gods  rock  their  airy  progeny. 

ST.  PETER'S  OF  THE  SKY 

HHHE  Vale  is  o'er  roofed  tonight 

I        By  a  dome  of  wondrous  sky, 
Violet  on  the  base-line — 

Bands  prismatic  piled  bright  high. 
Atop — a  silver  glow, 

Thru  which  first  stars  of  ev'ning  shine, 
'Till  the  whole  a  moment  stands 

As  an  edifice  divine. 

Twas  then  I  knew  why  Angelo 

St.  Peter's  dome  dared  raise; 
Those  splendid  skies  of  Italy 

Gave  birth  to  Art's  amaze. 
The  greatest  artist's  Masterpiece — 

That  Vault  esteemed  sublime, 
Was  dome  inspired  by  azure  sky — 

Cathedral  of  All  Time. 


Tell  me,  could  you  blame  me? 

That  'neath  this  vast  sublimity, 
I  knelt  in  silent  worship — 

Breathed  a  sweet  solemnity. 

THE  GREAT  BRIGHT  NIGHT 

T   ONG  the  storms  of  winter  had  run  their  course — 
j        Deep  snows  filled  the  Vale  from  every  source. 

The  peaks  were  spires  of  alabaster  white — 
They  flushed  in  the  sun  and  blanched  with  the  night. 
The  valleys  were  hollows  of  drifted  fleece — 
The  ridges,  iced  wave-crests,  of  frost's  increase; 
And  all  the  slopes,  argent  with  arctic  floss, 
Gleamed  'neath  a  full  moon,  in  silvery  gloss. 

The  Milky  Way  was  a  River  of  Light; 

The  Stars,  Constellations — celestial  bright — 

Were  moored,  lanterned,  in  the  Harbors  of  Night. 

Shooting-star  and  streaking  meteorite 

Dived  like  dolphins  in  sky's  deep  infinite; 

Planets  and  suns  flashed  in  zodiac  flight; 

And  all  Space,  yawning  empty  'mong  the  gleams, 

Was  filled  with  soft  'lumings  from  solar  beams. 

'Twas  the  Great  Bright  Night  of  Winter's  noon, 

When  the  snow-clad  mountains  sang  in  tune 
With  distant  worlds  and  the  soaring  moon, 

Of  something  Beyond — a  mystic  rune — 
Of  Thing  most  wondrous  that  men  have  known; 

A  cryptic  chant  of  the  Spirit's  own — 
The  cosmic  hymn  of  the  Holy  One 

Lifted  above  to  the  Great  White  Throne; 
Peaks  joining  their  song  with  those  of  far  suns, 

Adoring  God's  name  and  His  crowned  Son's: 
The  Great  Bright  Night  when  all  Creation  sings, 

Glory  of  Christmas,  Christ  Jesus,  the  King's! 

A  moment,  Poet  gazed  wondrous  scene  o'er, 
Standing  silent,  awe-struck,  by  his  cabin  door — 
This  was  the  sounding  of  the  mountains  heard, 
That,  not  again,  the  ancient  prophet  feared. 

40 


Emotions  ecstatic  on  him  down  bore, 

Then  into  his  hut,  he  too,  to  adore 

Mary's  sweet  Child  born,  the  manger  in,  pure — 

Dear  Lord,  whose  reign  that  for  Aye  will  endure; 

And  as  peaks  and  stars  sang  Messiah's  hymn, 

He  lighted  the  Christmas  candles  within. 

As  they  flamed  and  mellowed  to  golden  glow, 

He  kneeled  low  before  their  tapering  row; 

Repeated  the  words,  which  in  Bethlehem, 

Angels  caroled  of  Old  to  shepherd  men; 

Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  anthem; 

On  earth  peace,  and  good  will  toward  all  men. 

Then  heaping  the  hearth  with  boughs  of  pitch  pine, 

Cabin  panes  lit  with  the  flame's  rosy  shine; 

Sparks  leaped  from  chimney  in  fiery  stream — 

Hut  joined  the  far  planets  in  Christmas  gleam. 

'Twas  the  Great  Bright  Night  of  Winter's  noon, 

When  the  snow-clad  mountains  sang  in  tune 
With  distant  worlds  and  the  soaring  moon, 

Of  something  Beyond — a  mystic  rune — 
Of  Thing  most  wondrous  that  men  have  known; 

A  cryptic  chant  of  the  Spirit's  own — 
The  cosmic  hymn  of  the  Holy  One 

Lifted  above  to  the  Great  White  Throne; 
Peaks  joining  their  song  with  those  of  far  suns, 

Adoring  God's  name  and  His  crowned  Son's: 
The  Great  Bright  Night  when  all  Creation  sings, 

Glory  of  Christmas,  Christ  Jesus,  the  King's! 

THE  ROSY  FINCH 

All  Rosy-breasted,  intrepid  darling; 
Storm  driven,  e'en  from  thine  own  stormy  home, 
Those  terrible  cliffs  and  precipices  hung 
On  yon  Mountain,  where  now  wild  tempests  boom. 
Ah!     Me!     That  you  should  here  humbly  descend — 
To  the  door  of  my  hut,  picking  crumbs  here! 
You,  whom  I,  the  Guide — strangers  to  attend — 
Slow  ascending  your  Peak,  weakened  with  fear; 
There  witnessing  your  buoyant  free  flight, 
While  we,  with  straining  breath  and  faltering  feet, 
Laborious,  weary,  gained  the  dread  Height; 
There  to  revive — hearing  your  cheery  chirp  greet. 

41 


How  often,  dear  bird,  your  wing  in  my  sight, 
Hath  brushed  me  close  as  you  sought  the  snow-flea 
Lying  in  myriads  black  on  snow-fields  white, 
Where  I  was  cutting  ice  for  footholds  free; 
With  axe  slow  chipping  the  way  slippery 
That  hung  treach'rous  o'er  the  precipice  dizzy; 
Chopping  the  icy  steps  deep,  one  by  one, 
Then  leading  the  peak-climbers  fearful  on; 
To  mount!    Yea!    To  mount  the  great  Crest  mighty- 
To  conquer  That  which  has  oft  conquered  me; 
To  greet  on  its  summit  your  daring  wing — 
You,  here  at  my  feet,  now  feebly  feeding. 

Oh!    Pride!    As  I  scatter  crumbs  to  this  bird, 
Now  driv'  by  storm  from  that  Summit  so  fear'd; 
Great  Peak  which  has  made  me  crawl  like  a  worm, 
Clinging  to  slopes  steep  where  I  dared  not  turn; 
Pitching  on  me  wild  blasts  to  shake  my  hold, 
To  plunge  me  to  depths  paling  countenance  bold; 
Yet,  o'er  which  this  frail  bird  in  summer  flight 
Gathers  its  food  without  danger  or  fright. 

Yea!    Pride!     It  is  sweet  to  see  at  my  door 
That  wing  which  has  so  oft  triumphed  me  o'er. 
Dear  Rosy  Finch,  bird  of  Long's  topmost  height; 
Of  all  wee  birds,  the  most  darling  in  flight. 
Brave  Rosy  Finch,  when  by  storm  driven  nigh; 
Come,  lovely  thing — to  my  door  swiftly  fly. 


A  FEW  STARS  ARE  OUT 

OFT,  at  night,  to  mark  the  press  of  the  Storm, 
I  step  to  the  door  of  the  hut 
And  see  shining  orbs  of  familiar  form: 
Glad  I  cry,  "A  few  stars  are  out!" 

Thus,  like  Life,  when  the  Battle  rages  high — 
One  is  assailed  by  Gloom  and  Doubt; 

When  Victory,  fate  seems  to  belie: 
Then  says  Hope,  "A  few  stars  are  out!" 


42 


WIND  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 

WIND  on  the  Mountain! 
Hii>-Hip— Hurray! 
Blizzard  and  squall 
Blowing  today. 

Fire  on  the  Hearth-stones 

Dancing  and  gay; 
Flames  warm  and  bright, 

Gambol  and  play. 

Wind  on  the  Mountain! 

Hip — Hip — Hurray! 
Fire  on  the  Hearth-stones 

Burning  today. 


The  campbird,  or  Rocky  Mountain  jay,  is  the  closest  bird 
friend  of  man's  in  the  oberland;  so  friendly  and  tame  as  to  eat  from 
the  hand,  not  only  of  its  familiar  mountaineer  friend,  but  also  from 
that  of  a  perfect  stranger.  It  is  easily  the  Nestor  of  the  birds  in 
this  region,  successfully  maintaining  itself  among  the  different 
species,  which  abound  with  savage  hawks  and  voracious  owls, 
but  alone,  of  all  the  birds,  fraternizing  familiarity  with  and  winning 
the  warmest  esteem  and  protection  of  man. 

The  downright  unfaltering  confidence  which  this  bird  displays  in 
alighting  on  the  shoulder  or  hand  of  a  perfectly  strange  human  being 
in  the  midst  of  a  forest  glade,  is  simply  captivating  and  invariably 
excites  the  most  profound  emotion  and  admiration  of  the  party  so 
honored.  The  magpie,  Clark  crow,  crested  jay,  chickadee,  and  the 
woodpecker,  all  year-round  birds  of  the  Rockies,  will  readily  seek 
food  at  the  place  where  it  is  deposited  for  their  benefit  by  the  bird 
lover;  but  the  campbird,  alone,  will  take  it  from  his  hand;  will,  in 
fact,  with  charming  eagerness  and  most  endearing  cries,  seek  to 
obtain  it  from  the  hand  rather  than  from  the  shelf  or  trough,  as  tho 
craving  the  personal  affection  as  well  as  the  food  of  its  benefactor. 
A  complete  history  explaining  this  fowl's  confidence  in  humankind, 
in  contrast  with  the  shyness  of  other  birds,  would  be  extremely 
interesting. 

The  color  of  the  campbird  is  mostly  gray  and  the  two  sexes  can 
not  be  distinguished  from  each  other  as  to  form  or  color.  Their  nests 
are  concealed  and  defended  with  the  most  consummate  art  and  skill, 
being  usually  secreted  in  some  impenetrable  recess  of  the  forest. 
They  breed  early  in  the  spring  and  feed  their  young  until  the  parents 
themselves  are  gaunt  and  poor  in  contrast  with  the  plumpness  of 
their  brood.  They  are  particularly  fearful  of  wind  and  open  country, 
keeping  close  to  trees  and  forest  which  shelters  them  from  the 
former  and  affords  instant  harbor  against  the  predatories  who  prey 

43 


on  their  kind.  Silent,  falling  snow,  undisturbed  by  wind,  is  their 
congenial  winter  element,  as  they  wing  to  and  fro  from  the  food 
shelves  carrying  morsels  to  be  stored  and  fed  from  their  caches  thru 
the  long  periods  of  violent  storm. 

They  have  quite  a  range  of  notes,  often  imitating  those  of  the 
magpie  and  crested  jays,  their  constant  associates;  but  their  natural 
language  seems  to  be  a  series  of  charming,  low,  sweet  notes  expressing 
pleasure  and  endearment. 

The  family  of  campbirds  inhabiting  the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  probably 
numbering  a  dozen  at  this  writing,  1921,  are  undoubtedly  the  former 
proteges  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  E.  J.  Lamb  who  were  the  first  permanent 
settlers  here;  and  Mrs.  Lamb  fed  them  from  her  hands  for  upwards 
of  40  years.  Their  successors  have  faithfully  maintained  the  custom. 


THE  CAMPBIRD 

SOFTLY  from'the  wood  thru  the  wintry  sky, 
Breasting  the  frosty  snows  that  whirling  fly; 
Calling  with  sweet  assuring  cooing  cry, 
As  with  low  flight  its  pinions  ply; 
Seeking  the  precious  food  which  human  friends 
On  some  safe  ledge  or  shelf  for  it  intends, 
Comes  the  brave  campbird — feathered  Fluff  0'  Gray — 
To  store  its  larder  for  a  coming  day. 

Perched,  with  crust  fixed  in  mouth,  it  peers  outward 
To  mark  its  course  for  the  safe  returnward. 
Gravely  cautious  of  wind,  and  storm,  and  foe; 
Assured,  it  darts  and  seeks  safe  covert  low, 
Where,  hid  beneath  the  boughs  of  spreading  trees, 
From  copse  to  copse  it  flits  in  studied  ease; 
The  calm  winged  campbird— feathered  Fluff  0'  Gray- 
Swelling  its  hoard  of  food  in  piled  array. 

In  summer,  weighed  with  care  of  its  hungry  brood, 

It  trains  them  keen  in  search  for  human  food. 

Far  on  the  mountain,  in  some  forest  glade, 

Where  Nature  in  generous  mood  has  made 

Camp  inviting  presence  of  humankind — 

Where  a  company  at  lunch  are  inclined; 

There  flies  the  campbird — feathered  Fluff  0'  Gray — 

Bringing  its  brood  to  share  the  spread's  display. 

44 


Not  content  with  waiting  patience  on  a  tree, 

At  your  invitation,  upon  your  knee, 

Gravely  earnest  in  its  food  seeking  quest, 

It  comes,  and  from  your  hand  as  you  suggest, 

Will  pluck  with  captivating  eagerness 

That  crust  with  which  it  feeds  its  clam'rous  nest; 

The  parent  cambird — feathered  Fluff  0'  Gray — 

Dear  fowl  enlivening  the  woodland  way. 

How  venerable,  Sachem-like,  this  crow, 
Which  peers  so  calmly  earnest  from  the  bough; 
Anxious,  vigilant,  when  the  wild  winds  blow, 
Yet  cool  commander  whose  clear  eyes  bestow 
Calculated  glances  to  'lude  the  foe 
And  maintain  its  kind  in  this  world  below; 
The  wise-eyed  campbird — feathered  Fluff  0'  Gray- 
Nestor  of  birds,  sagacious  Canada  Jay. 


LOVE  SONG  OF  THE  SNOW 

O  SWARTHY  Mountain,  be  my  Love, 
I'll  be  thy  Waterfall; 
For  Love  hath  laid  me  on  thy  breast 
To  melt  ecstatical. 
All  full  about  thy  shoulders  brown 

Shall  fall  my  tresses  down; 
I'll  pillow  them  about  thy  head 

As  mists  that  softly  spread. 
And  thou  shalt  clasp  me  in  thine  arms — 

Thy  canons  quaff  my  charms — 
As  thou,  dear  Mountain,  I  entwine, 
And  press  my  lips  to  thine." 


45 


L° 


LOOKING  OFF  NORTH 


OOKING  off  North 

'Neath  the  clear  Polar  star, 

As  true  as  its  pointing  bar, 
Are  friends,  whose  homes  set  high, 
Seen  across  the  Vale, 
Suggest  the  blessed  company 
Of  many  a  cherished  tale. 

A  curl  of  smoke  in  the  blizzard's  choke— 

A  lamp  shining  bright  in  the  pale  moonlight 

Far  across  the  winter  snows; 

Oh!  A  cuddle  of  warmth  steals  soft  o'er  the  heart — 

Looking  off  North  to  the  friends  that  one  knows. 

Looking  off  North 

Under  the  shining  sun, 

As  bright  as  its  noontide  run, 

Are  souls,  whose  dear  abodes, 

'Mong  the  solitudes 

Across  the  Vale,  beam  radiant  love 

That  brighten  the  skies  above. 

Looking  off  North 
In  that  Infinite  light 
Where  gleams  a  celestial  dome; 
Above  the  sun — Above  the  stars — 
Up  to  a  Holy  Throne; 
My  faith  tells  me  that  an  alpine  hearth, 
Fired  with  human  heart  and  love, 
Lights  the  hearth  of  Immortal  Life 
In  the  palace  of  God  above. 

A  curl  of  smoke  in  the  blizzard's  choke — 

A  lamp  shining  bright  in  the  pale  moonlight 

Far  across  the  winter  snows; 

Oh!  A  cuddle  of  warmth  steals  soft  o'er  the  heart — 

Looking  off  North  to  the  friends  that  one  knows. 


46 


It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that,  as  seen  from  the  Vale  of  Elkanah. 
The  Twin  Sisters,  Estes  Cone,  and  Longs  Peak — flanked  by  Mt. 
Meeker  and  Lady  Washington — resemble  nothing  so  much,  in  their 
finest  ensemble  and  under  proper  perspective,  light,  and  shade,  as 
gigantic  thrones.  And  ever  wonderful  and  fascinating  to  the 
observer,  is  the  eternal  flow  of  the  planets,  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
over  their  summits,  crests,  and  skyline,  forever  constant  to  those 
perpetual  dial  points  of  peak,  crag,  pinnacle,  and  saddle.  For  ages, 
the  solar  system,  the  constellations,  the  zodiac,  have  rotated  with 
perfect  exactitude  over  this  immortal  skyline,  returning  and  appear 
ing  in  their  respective  cycles  each  at  its  particular  place  on  the 
mountain  crests.  From  the  north  head  of  the  Twins  to  far  south  over 
the  low  Big  Elk  range,  the  sun  and  moon  in  their  periods  rise  regularly 
to  the  exact  degree  on  the  mountain  tops,  gloriously  enthroned  when 
they  rise  and  seeming  to  be  momentarily  seated  in  the  saddle  of  that 
wonderful  peak,  from  thence  to  wheel  onward  across  the  Vale,  and 
at  the  appointed  moment,  repeat  their  beamy  coronation  on  the 
crests  of  the  western  rim. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THRONES 

VAST  Circlet  of  Peaks— 
The  Valley  of  Thrones— 
Of  Sun,  Moon,  and  the  shining  Stars; 
As  they  mount  your  far  heights, 
Each,  as  royal  it  owns, 
Its  cycle  of  bright  crowned  hours. 

Vast  Circlet  of  Peaks— 

The  Valley  of  Thrones; 
Which  thru  eons  of  Time  ne'er  fail, 

Greeting  regalia'd  orbs 

Aflame  in  beamy  zones, 
Each  throned  in  its  place  'loft  the  Vale. 

Vast  Circlet  of  Peaks— 

The  Valley  of  Thrones! 
Oh,  wondrous  the  flight  of  the  Suns; 

As  they  go  and  each  runs 

In  zodiacal  tones — 
Exact  o'er  the  Vale  rim  each  comes. 


47 


Vast  Circlet  of  Peaks— 
The  Valley  of  Thrones! 

The  Heavens  train  o'er  Thee  their  Lords; 
Begirt  with  their  jewels, 
Their  nebula'd  cocoons — 

Age  on  Age,  their  dial'd  course  accords. 

Vast  Circlet  of  Peaks— 

The  Valley  of  Thrones — 
Attend  at  night  conjunctions  bright; 

Celestial  multitude  of 

Starry  coronations, 
Bespangling  every  mountain  height. 

THE  CARESSES  OF  STARS 

COME,  Love,  into 
The  alpenglow  with  me — 
Join  me  in  this 
Heavenly  mystery — 
As  the  rosy  lips 

Of  the  evening  sky 
Press  fondly  the  brows 
Of  the  mountains  high." 

"Oh,  let  my  loving  lips 

As  purely  thus, 
Rest  sweetly  and 

Blissfully  langorous, 
On  the  brow  of  Thee, 

My  dear  cherished  one, 
As  we  watch  the  last 

Beams  of  setting  sun." 

Thus  lovers  reflect 

The  caresses  of  stars, 
As  thru  Heaven's  abyss 

They  drive  their  bright  cars; 
And  the  golden  glances 

Of  setting  suns, 
Suggest  to  young  hearts 

Celestial  passions. 

48 


THE  ENCHANTED  SNOWS 


ON  the  Great  Divide  a  strange  snow  there  falls — 
Nay!     It  does  not  fall,  but  wild  appalls 
The  fixed  eye,  by  suspension,  weird,  in  air; 
As  Merlin  reared  of  old  by  magic  rare, 
Vast  courts  and  castled  walls  in  high  mid-air, 
Causing  assembled  knights  and  ladies  to  stare 
Incredulous  of  stone  or  metal  there — 
Enchantment  gross,  most  infernal,  their  fare. 

So  these  mountains,  in  this  magical  fleece — 
As  the  containing  clouds,  by  drift,  decrease 
Or  increase  their  bulk  in  the  firmament — 
Appear  to  advance  or  retreat  as  beasts 
Outlandish,  leviathan,  huge  increased, 
Mammothed,  mastodonic,  dreadful  imminent; 
Black  as  ebony  on  their  vast  reared  flanks — 
White  as  alabaster  where  the  pure  snow  ranks. 

The  familiar  crags,  summits,  the  outlines, 

Of  our  peaks,  as  this  wond'rous  fleece  inclines 

Its  white  magic,  lose  all  identity; 

And  to  more  confuse,  confound,  there  is  no  sky — 

Naught,  but  this  marvelous  wild  enchantment 

In  black  and  white,  with  envel'ping  content 

Of  raging  air  so  hideously  enve'med, 

That  Hell  with  all  its  winds  could  scarce  contend. 

What  life,  furred,  scaled,  or  feathered,  could  exist? 

What,  save  metal  or  granite,  could  resist? 

Such  mad  elements;  reversing  very  nature 

By  their  stupendous  contentious  conjure, 

Floating  the  very  mountains  as  ships  buoyant, 

Adrift,  thru  some  titanic  black  art  invertant 

To  laws  of  invincible  gravity — 

Proved,  when  calm  morn  shows  the  reestablished  sky. 


THE  GREAT  HORN  OF  MEEKER  SHONE  IN 

THE  SUN 

THE  great  horn  of  Meeker  shone  in  the  sun, 
And  shining — it  called  to  me; 
"Wake  to  the  Morn,  on  my  summit  now  flung — 
Wake,  to  worship  Deity." 

I  answered  its  call — worshipped  Holy  One, 

There  in  that  day-breaking  hour; 
I  kneeled  in  dew  as  the  meadow-larks  sung, 

In  sight  of  that  sun-kissed  Tower. 

The  great  horn  of  Meeker  shone  in  the  sun — 

It  will  never  forget  me; 
It  found  me  faithful  and  true,  heart  and  tongue, 

In  worshipping  Deity. 


THE  CHICKADEEANS 

CHICKADEEANS,  elfin  bird  things, 
Winging  thru  the  forest  gay; 
Voices  cheery,  flight  so  merry, 
Twittering  their  roundelay. 

Chickadeeans,  sturdy  troopers, 
Dwelling  mountains  all  the  year; 

Chirping  gayly,  singing  blithely, 
Breasting  storms  without  a  fear. 

Chickadeeans,  happy  titmice, 
Waking  snowy  woods  at  Day; 

Warbling  sweet,  in  spite  of  Winter, 
Summer's  tuneful  melody. 

Chickadeeans,  always  thanking 
Settlers  giving  crust  and  crumb, 

With  ecstacies  of  happy  song; 
Proof — to  kindness  they're  not  dumb. 

Chickadeeans,  darling  tree  gnomes, 
When  the  tempests  dreary  ply; 

Seek  our  shelter  and  our  feeding — 
On  the  Settler  safe  rely. 


50 


WHEN  THE  BRIGHT  MOON  SHINES  ON  THE 
SNOWY  PEAKS 


WHEN  the  bright  moon  shines  on  the  snowy 
peaks; 
When  the  stars  gleam  their  flashing  prismic 

streaks; 

And  not  a  sound  from  the  white  mountain  breaks — 
Wilderness  vast,  untouched  by  hand  that  wreaks; 
'Tis  then  the  voice  of  holy  Silence  speaks — 
Solitude,  angel  which  the  poet  seeks. 

Seen  from  the  path  that  leads  him  to  his  home, 

This  scene  of  saintly  splendor  on  the  height; 

This  moon,  these  stars,  these  snow-clad  shining  hills — 

The  poet  lifts  the  latch  that  it  may  come, 

The  muse  of  Solitude  from  out  the  night; 

To  hear  that  Silence  speak  and  feel  its  thrills. 


POOR  BUNNY 


POOR  Bunny,  you  that  played  gay  'neath  the  moon; 
That  capered  and  gamboled  the  green  sward  on, 
As  I  watched  from  where  I  sat  on  the  hill — - 
Your  pranks  and  leapings  delighting  me  still; 
Now  breathing  your  last  in  the  jaws  of  my  hound 
Who  caught  you  as  careless  you  fed  around. 
Poor  Bunny,  you  that  played  gay  'neath  the  moon; 
Ah!     Death!     You  are  that  which  saddens  Life's  rune! 

Poor  Bunny,  you  that  played  gay  'neath  the  moon; 

Prey  universal,  which  hunger  feeds  on — 

Sport  of  beasts;  of  eagle,  hawk,  owl,  and  hound; 

E'en  hunted  of  man  wherever  you're  found; 

I  thank  God,  your  numbers,  your  only  defense, 

Will  equal  your  losses,  tho  hunted  intense. 

Dear  Bunny,  romp  again  'neath  the  bright  moon; 

Ah!     Life!    To  Death  cruel,  play  your  dear  tune! 

51 


THE  WONDER  SLEEP 

EXPECTING  Spring,  snows  melting,  roads  op'ning- 
The  bluebirds  'round  the  cabin  twittering; 
Bright,  unclouded  sun,  chinook  surging  warm; 
Winter,  retreating,  in  apparent  alarm — 
There  came  a  change,  the  worst  storm  of  the  year, 
Filling  the  mountain  land  with  anxious  fear. 
For  days,  the  white  envel'prnent  of  mad  gale — 
Great  snows  fell,  vast,  deep  smothering  the  Vale; 
And  Winter,  roaring,  in  exultant  glee, 
Reigned  supremest  in  triumphant  fury. 

Quite  duped,  and  toiling  to  the  verge  of  faint, 
I  labored  to  hold  his  arms  in  some  'straint; 
Trees  felled,  nigh  lost  in  the  great  depths  of  snow, 
Dug  up,  dragged — great  effort,  to  hut  below — 
Eyes,  hair,  beard,  frozen  in  the  white  downpour, 
As  all  'mid  air  the  awful  blizzard's  roar; 
E'en  the  very  mountains  seemed  to  tremble — 
Power  of  Boreas  in  full  ensemble. 
Muscles,  limbs,  lungs,  I  strained  'gainst  the  blast — 
Gained,  thru  the  welter,  my  snug  hut  at  last; 
Won,  each  log,  for  the  warm  protecting  fire, 
By  sweated  battle,  from  the  Arctic  ire. 

Within,  late  afternoon,  stock  of  fuel 

Piled  high  to  fight  the  elements  cruel, 

I  doffed  my  furs  and,  toil-spent  looked  around: 

My  three  dogs  before  the  hearth  were  sleeping  sound: 

Bright  blossoms  in  the  warm  south  window  found, 

Twining  up,  vernal,  fresh,  from  potted  ground. 

Outside  the  panes,  icicles  cling  and  twist, 

From  eaves,  pendent,  full  thick  as  brawny  wrist; 

Thrust,  still  roof-dripping,  deep  in  piled  snow, 

Swelled,  up-drifted,  from  unseen  earth  below. 

'Neath  the  shelf  of  flowers,  a  wooden  stand, 

On  which  the  Immortals,  illumed,  grand — 

Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Rome's  inspired,  lettered  Band; 

Bible,  Homer,  Virgil — those  of  England, 

Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  other  Masters  rare; 

The  literature  of  all  races  there; 

Great  epics — poetry  from  everywhere, 

All  gathered  in  those  treasured  volumes  fair. 

52 


Amid  this  scene  of  amazing  contrast; 

Outside — hideous  ravings  of  the  Blast; 

Inside — this  beaut'ous  room  of  sweetest  home, 

Warm  hearth,  books,  sleeping  hound,  flowers  in  bloom, 

I  laid  me  down  upon  my  pillowed  couch, 

My  tired  hands  crossed  on  breast  in  restful  crouch. 

Sighing  more  rapture  than  love-dreaming  maid — 

In  all  the  Robes  of  Slumber  soft  arrayed — 

I  reposed,  in  delicious  sleep  profound, 

With  wildest  Winter  raging  dreadful  'round. 

All  sweet  oblivious  of  storm  and  cloud, 

I  slept,  'mid  this  bower  of  Peace  and  God. 

PUT  UP  THE  BAR 

PUT  up  the  bar  to  the  door  of  the  hut — 
Shut  out  the  night  and  the  storm. 
Heap  up  the  logs  on  the  Hearth  of  the  Gods 
To  keep  them  happy  and  warm. 

Thru  the  windows  far  our  red  flame  shall  gleam 

Athwart  the  Valley  of  Snow; 
With  spruce  wood  and  pine  we'll  defy  the  blast 

And  laugh  in  the  rosy  glow. 

GOING  WEST 

EY  say  the  World-War  soldiers, 
Before  they  died  and  passed  away, 
Called  softly  to  their  comrades, 
"Dear  Pals,  I'm  going  West  today." 
And  ever  since,  the  people  too, 

When  Death's  summons  comes  their  way, 
Speak  to  friends  as  the  soldiers  did, 
Those  selfsame  words — Life's  last  say; 
''Dear  Pals,  I'm  going  West  today." 

Going  West,  dear  One,  toward  the  setting  sun, 
To  the  Land  that  is  yours,  for  your  race  is  won. 
Going  West,  dear  Pal,  on  the  Trail  begun 
To  the  Promised  Land,  for  your  work  is  done. 
Going  West,  dear  Heart,  'cross  the  Great  Divide, 
In  the  flush  of  your  brave  warrior  pride. 
Going  West,  dear  Friend,  on  the  sunset  tide 
With  your  comrades  true  who  have  nobly  died. 

53 


For  the  West  is  the  land  where  the  spirits  come; 
The  Land  where  you  hope  to  find  Some  One. 
Where  an  angel  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  Peak, 
To  whom,  when  you're  passing,  you  should  speak 
And  ask  the  way  to  the  Far  Off  Land 
Where  the  Father  extends  His  welcoming  hand; 
A  land  so  bright  that  it  needs  no  sun, 
For  its  light  is  the  Love  of  the  Holy  One. 

And  those  who  remain,  let  them  breathe  a  prayer, 
For  our  beautiful  dead  who  are  gathered  there; 
In  that  golden  West  of  the  soldier's  dreams 
Where  the  sun  o'er  the  Harvest  brightly  beams. 
Where  those  who  have  given  their  very  best 
Are  summoned  to  God  to  their  final  rest. 
Where  those  who  have  suffered  the  supreme  test 
Live  again  in  the  warmth  of  the  Master's  breast. 


Wall  O'Gray  or  the  wind  cloud  on  Longs  Peak  and  on  the  Front 
Range  in  general,  is  one  of  the  few  almost  infallible  weather  signs 
of  the  obcrland.  It  signifies  wind  from  the  west  or  northwest  and 
which  is  likely  to  prevail  in  the  immediate  vicinity  until  the  phe 
nomenon  disappears.  It  is  rarely  ever  observed  in  summer,  appearing 
from  time  to  time  from  mid-September  until  May. 

WALL  0'  GRAY 

WHEN,  on  Longs  Peak,  a  pallored  mass  is  seen, 
Vast,  roaring,  soaring,  cloud  of  gray; 
Then  prepares  the  Vale-bound  settler  keen 
For  a  wild,  tempestuous,  windy  day. 
This  cloud,  a  mountain  wonder,  so  they  say — 
From  whence  it  comes  or  goes,  a  mystery. 
Not  so,  its  invariable  effect, 

For  it  means — this  dread  bank  of  whirling  spray — 
Storm's  array — Wild  windy  day — 
Wall  0'  Gray! 

This  peak-perched  cloud  ne'er  seems  to  come  or  go, 
But,  consumed  with  fury  envenomed  so; 
Poised,  stands,  transfixed — raging,  twining  self 
Fold  within  fold.    Winding  within  itself, 
With  kneading  motion,  its  fierce  entity. 
Twisting,  sustained  with  power  rotary; 

54 


A  Shape  constant,  tho  rolled  and  over-rolled, 
Throning  forces  of  Tempest,  fearful,  bold; 
Storm's  array — Wild  windy  day — 
Wall  0'  Gray! 

Twould  seem,  Boreas,  his  fort  had  raised  there; 
His  armies  massed,  the  angry  Hordes  of  Air. 
From  East,West,North,South — winds  from  every  where- 
At  times,  swarming  that  far  Height  bleak  and  bare. 
Where,  enranked,  close  attendant  to  his  call, 
With  world  o'er  viewed,  the  wide  Continent,  all; 
Whole  field  of  action  seen  from  mountain  tall — 
He  sounds  battle  to  his  forces  corporal: 
Storm's  array — Wild  windy  day — 
Wall  0'  Gray! 

SPIRIT  SNOW 

TOU  art  a  Spirit, 
Tender,  bewitching,  maiden  Snow!   Enfolding 

Every  stern  cragg'd  mountain  cold 
In  daintiest  filament  and  softening 
Their  wild  steeps  to  gentlest  mould. 

Thou  art  a  Spirit, 
Tender,  bewitching,  maiden  Snow!      A  celestial 

Visitor  to  this  mountain  night. 
Oh!     That  my  soul  was  as  saintly  white 

As  this   lustrous  fleece  beneath  the  moonbeams 
bright. 

MY  DOG  BEFORE  THE  HEARTH 

MY  dog  before  the  hearth 
Has  stretched  him  so: 
His  four  white  paws, 
Cleanly  pink'd  in  ball  and  toe, 
From  many  a  mile 
Traversed  deep  in  drifted  snow, 
Relaxed  now  are 
And  silent  lie  in  soft  repose. 

Sleek  his  glossy  coat 
Rises  with  each  breath. 
In  deep  slumber,  he, 
Before  the  cheery  hearth. 


My  dog!     Faithful  companion 
Of  each  passing  day; 
Safe  within  his  master's  hut 
To  sleep  the  night  away. 

THE  PINE  GROSBEAK 

FLAME  0'  Winter,  scarlet,  cardinal  crest; 
Grosbeak,   whose  bright  plumes  snow-lade  pines 

invest. 

Solitary  flame  of  the  white  wilderness, 
Filling  bleak  woods  with  crimson  loveliness. 
What  sound  is  this?    Hath  some  great  cathedral 
With  organ  note  of  tube  arboreal— 
Exquisite  aria  of  register 
Blown  from  the  very  loft  of  pipes  upper, 
Pealed  afar  to  this  mountain  solitude 
Fingered  strains  of  a  Nun's  ecstatic  mood? 
Like  an  angel's  lute  or  flute,  Seraphim 
Played,  to  some  Holy  Presence  dedicate; 
Visioning  celestial  Cherubim 
Bright  attendant,  sweet-throated  caroling 
Beatitudes,  fair  saintly  heralding 
Graces  winging  supernally  above — 
Deity  enthroned  'mid  the  Courts  of  Love! 
Ah!     'Tis  the  cathedral  note  of  the  Flame  Bird 
That  o'er  the  pine  wood  ravishing  is  heard; 
The  Grosbeak — plumed  fire  of  that  wintry  land 
Where  tempests  bellow  and  peaks  snowy  stand. 


STARLIGHT  THRU  THE  MIST 

STARLIGHT  thru  the  mist 
Is  when  Evening 

Robes  her  daintiest. 
Starlight  thru  the  mist 
Is  when  maidens 

Glance  their  loveliest. 
Starlight  thru  the  mist 
Is  when  warm  lips 
Press  their  tenderest. 


56 


WHEN  THE  MOON  SHINES  IN  MOUNTAIN- 
LAND 


WHEN  the  moon  shines  in  mountain-land 
O'er  the  great  peaks  white  'neath  their  snow, 
There  comes  a  feeling — of  eerie  being — 
That  you  don't  get  in  lands  below. 
It  makes  you  lonesome — so  creepy  fearsome — 

Yet  you  can't  coax  yourself  to  go; 
But  stay  a  list'ning — softly  singing — 
Till  the  stars  gleam  their  midnight  glow. 

When  the  owls  hoot  in  mountain-land 

As  the  Moon  rises  high,  tip-toe, 
There  comes  a  feeling — of  eerie  being — 

That  you  don't  get  in  lands  below. 
It  makes  you  lonesome — so  creepy  fearsome — 

Yet  you  can't  coax  yourself  to  go; 
But  stay  a  list'ning — softly  singing — 

Till  the  stars  gleam  their  midnight  glow. 

When  the  wolves  howl  in  mountain-land, 

To  the  Moon  their  worship  bestow, 
There  comes  a  feeling — of  eerie  being — 

That  you  don't  get  in  lands  below. 
It  makes  you  lonesome — so  creepy  fearsome — 

Yet  you  can't  coax  yourself  to  go; 
But  stay  a  list'ning — softly  singing — 

Till  the  stars  gleam  their  midnight  glow. 


RAINING  IN  THE  CANON 

RAINING  in  the  Canon- 
Splash — splash — splash : 
Water  in  the  River — 
Dash — dash — dash ; 
Thunder  on  the  Mountain — 

Crash — crash — crash ; 
Mighty  like  creation's 
A  going  all  to  smash! 


57 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WEST 


HPHERE'S  a  feeling  of  Recreation 
I      When  you  go  to  a  different  clime; 

A  spirit  of  Exultation, 
Whether  north  or  south  of  the  Line. 
But  to  know  the  intensive  meaning 
Of  a  wonderful — beautiful  time, 
One  must  go  to  the  Crest  of  the  Rockies 
To  experience  that  pleasure  divine. 

Oh!    The  Call  of  the  West— Youth's  treasure-chest; 

Hills  and  vales  forever  fair: 
New  lands,  new  faces,  greetings  happiest; 

Glad  songs  sweet  welcoming  there. 
Oh!     Call  of  the  West  from  the  Nation's  Crest, 

Where  the  great  Peaks  split  the  Tide; 
Where  West  greets  East  by  the  Spread  Eagle's  nest, 

Atop  of  the  Great  Divide. 

There's  a  thrill  of  Exaltation — 
Solemn  worship  of  the  Sublime; 
A  lifting  of  thoughts  to  Heights  of  Sky- 
Once  doubted — here  found,  forever  Thine. 
A  great  Peace  with  the  Sov'reign  Power 
Declar'd,  and  felt — past  the  bounds  of  Time. 
•  A  birth  of  Love,  vast,  which  understands  All — 
That  rhymes  perfect  with  Eternity's  line. 

Oh!    The  West  is  young  and  the  West  is  strong; 

Its  people  worth  living  among. 
They  came  from  all  quarters,  a  wonderful  throng; 

Democracy — Of  every  tongue. 
Oh!     Call  of  the  West  from  the  Nation's  Crest, 

To  the  Land  of  the  Setting  Sun. 
Where  West  greets  East  by  the  Spread  Eagle's  nest, 

In  the  love  of  the  Holy  One. 


58 


SUNRISE  TRAIL 


WHEN  it's  morning  in  the  mountains 
And  the  robins  on  the  hill, 
Burst  forth  in  joyous  rapture 
As  they  sing  their  daybreak  trill; 
Then  I  call  the  guide  and  party, 

'Fore  the  dawn  lights  up  the  Vale — 
I  call  them  to  the  breakfast 
Ere  they  hit  the  Sunrise  Trail. 

Oh!     It's  glory  in  the  mountains 

When  the  birds  break  forth  in  song; 
When  the  morn-winds  stir  the  pine  trees 

To  sing  with  the  feathered  throng. 
When  the  rabbits  and  the  gray  squirrels 

Wake  to  view  the  daybreak  pale — 
As  I  call  the  folks  to  breakfast 

Ere  they  hit  the  Sunrise  Trail. 

Oh!     It's  joyful  in  the  mountains 

When  the  party's  had  its  fill; 
When  the  guide  is  at  the  stable 

And  the  horses  whinny  shrill. 
When  the  sun  in  glory  rises 

And  its  warm  beams  fill  the  Vale — 
When  the  folks  are  in  the  saddle 

And  they  hit  the  Sunrise  Trail. 

Oh!     It's  happy  in  the  mountains 

And  expectancy  doth  thrill, 
When  the  folks  are  in  the  saddle 

And  the  ponies  climb  the  hill. 
When  their  souls  are  full  of  sunshine, 

And  their  spirits  bright  and  hale — 
When  it's  morning  in  the  mountains 

And  they  hit  the  Sunrise  Trail. 


59 


THE  HOME  THAT  IS  HOME  TO  ALL 

THERE'S  a  wondrous  Inn  on  the  Road  of  Life, 
Wherever  the  Traveler  wends. 
It  is  always  near,  so  secure  and  dear, 
Oft,  not  found,  till  the  Journey  ends. 
It  has  just  one  key,  but  it  you  must  have, 

To  open  the  door  in  the  wall: 
That  key— it  is  Love;  the  Inn,  is  God's  Heart, 
The  Home  that  is  Home  to  us  all. 

Be  ye  black  or  white,  red,  yellow  or  brown — 

Have  ye  clothes  of  homespun  or  silk; 
Are  ye  sinner  or  saint,  rich  man  or  poor — 

No  matter  your  state  or  your  ilk; 
If  you  have  Love's  key,  for  it  you  must  have, 

To  open  the  door  in  the  wall; 
If  you  have  that,  you  will  dwell  in  God's  Heart, 

The  Home  that  is  Home  to  us  all. 


W 


WHAT  GOLDEN  CANOPY  IS  THIS  ? 

HAT  Golden  Canopy  fair,  is  this — 
Whose  draperies  cling  like  gold  silks  spun 
Aloft  the  Peaks  where  the  Dawn  winds  run? 


It  hides  the  form  of  a  goddess — Cloud, 
Bathing  in  fires  of  the  rising  Sun — 
Hiding  her  charms  as  a  veiled  Nun. 

THE  PORCUPINE 

THE  Porcupine— priv'leged  of  wilderness — 
Immune  from  attack  by  dread  quilliness: 
The  bear,  cougar,  wolf,  and  lynx,  this  quilled  death, 
In  ages  past  have  learned,  and  shun  its  breath. 
And  even  Man,  who  oft  with  rifle  plays, 
Dealing  death  promiscuous  many  ways, 
Stands  before  this  huddled  thing  in  earnest  gaze — 
Made  so  marvelously  as  to  amaze. 
The  forester,  discovering  those  trees 
Which  this  beast  has  girdled  with  deadly  frieze, 

60 


Often  slays  the  culprit  in  burning  rage; 
For  naught  can  a  tree  lover's  grief  assuage 
Save  quick  extermination  of  the  scourge — 
Fierce  is  the  hate  when  wrongs  rise  to  urge. 
Howe'er,  the  Philosopher,  wondering; 
Calmly  o'er  all  life,  quiet  pondering, 
Marks  in  this  beast  a  consummation  prime 
Inspiring  awe  of  God's  work  most  sublime — 
Who  willed  this  priv'leged  Form,  that  without  fear 
Boldly  treads  savage  wilds  year  by  year: 
Wondrous  defensive,  when  danger  is  near, 
By  simply  curling  up  in  blinking  peer. 
E'en  the  raging  lion,  hunger  wild,  is  tamed 
By  knowledge  that  this  Form  is  ancient  famed 
For  quills  and  darts  that  bring  slow  tort'rous  death 
To  that  which  dares  attempt  with  tearing  teeth. 
Thus,  to  him  who  can  overlook  the  sting — 
The  loss  of  trees,  can  cherish  other  offspring 
Of  Nature,  each  in  its  place.fast  fixed  Fate; 
Can,  in  marveling  mood,  appreciate 
That  which  God  made  so  wonderful,  divine — 
Let  Man  revere  the  quilly  Porcupine. 


IN  THE  TAWNY  DAYS  OF  AUGUST 

WHEN  the  rain  has  left  the  Valley 
And  the  crops  are  ripening  brown; 
When  the  heats  of  Summer  rally 
To  bring  the  Harvest  on: 
Then  I'm  off  for  Trails  of  Glory, 

Where  the  golden  eagles  fly; 
When  the  Gods  of  fiery  August 
Blaze  the  Lowlands  'neath  the  sky. 

Into  the  tawny,  lionel, 
The  Great  Peaks  stretch  their  forms; 
'Neath  the  burning  skies  of  August, 
They  drowse,  unvexed  by  storms; 
In  the  tawny  days  of  August — 
As  they  flank  the  snowy  Pass; 
In  the  tawny  days  of  August — 
When  the  sun  is  shining  brass. 

61 


When  the  Peaks  are  gleaming  rosy 

And  the  Plains  are  hot  and  dry; 
When  the  flames  of  glowing  August 

Scorch  the  arches  of  the  sky: 
Then  I'm  off  for  Trails  of  Glory 

Where  the  snows  and  glaciers  lie; 
In  the  deep  and  vernal  forest — 

There  I'm  camped,  the  streamlet  by. 

Into  the  tawny,  lionel, 
The  Great  Peaks  stretch  their  forms; 
'Neath  the  burning  skies  of  August, 
They  drowse,  un vexed  by  storms: 
In  the  tawny  days  of  August — 
As  they  flank  the  snowy  Pass; 
In  the  tawny  days  of  August — 
When  the  sun  is  shining  brass. 


FATE 

FAR  o'er  the  trackless  oceans  of  the  Deep — 
O'er  deserts  wide — far  up  the  mountains  steep; 
Amid  the  wilds  of  jungle,  brake,  and  wood — 
E'en  to  the  fastnesses  of  Solitude; 
I  had  still  escaped,  fled  as  one  pursued, 
From  Phantom  of— Oh!  God!  My  Self— my  Fate! 

At  last,  with  withered  locks  and  falt'ring  feet; 
Burdened  with  years — still  fearing  to  meet — 
I  stood  upon  a  precipice,  lofty,  high; 
Upon  a  ledge  so  narrow,  that  to  try — 
Retrace  the  steep  steps  that  I  had  come  by — 
'Twas  impossible — I  stood  abreast  the  sky, 
And  met,  at  last,  face  to  face,  my  Self — Fate! 

I  could  have  gone  on,  but — path  barred  by  Self, 

I  stood  there,  aghast,  on  that  narrow  shelf. 

It  was  a  dizzy  plunge — thousands  of  feet; 

Suicide — should  I  leap;  only  to  meet, 

If  I  did  so  dare — in  my  death  to  greet, 

Oh!  God!    That  Monster  dread— my  Self— my  Fate! 

62 


As  hesitate  I  stood — my  poor  thin  locks 

Tossed  by  a  wild  wind  roaring  'mid  the  rocks, 

The  Thing  spoke;  "Why  flee?  Leap,  Fool — if  you  dare; 

Hell  has  no  place  so  deep  but  I'll  be  there! 

Coward!    All  your  life  is  barren  and  bare, 

Because  you  have  feared  Me,"  said  my  Self — Fate! 

"Listen,  if  you  would  live  and  be  a  man — 

Take  your  place  in  the  Universal  Plan; 

Follow,  instead  of  base  fleeing  from  Me. 

I  am  your  Fate,  leading,  eternally. 

Accept — embrace  Me,  your  Path  will  be  free; 

Deny  Me — Fool!  Thou  canst  not  slay  thy  Self — Fate!" 

I  twisted  and  turned  on  that  narrow  shelf; 
Alas!  there  was  no  escape  from  my  Self. 
Timidly,  I  looked,  and  gave  Self  a  nod, 
Addressing  a  prayer  to  Almighty  God; 
Then,  penitent,  I  passed  under  the  Rod: 
United,  at  last,  with  my  Self — my  Fate! 

Oh!     What  a  very  fool  a  man  can  be, 
Who  struggles  in  vain  with  his  Destiny. 
No  one,  as  yet,  e'er  escaped  his  Self — Mate, 
Tho  from  youth  to  old  age  he  flees  the  state. 
Better  far,  to  do  what  the  gods  relate; 
Submit — there's  no  escape — to  Himself — Fate! 

THE  MISTAKE 

I,  THE  guide,  once  careless,  on  the  great  Peak, 
Taking  a  false  trail,  made  a  slight  mistake. 
Soon,  conscious  of  my  error,  looking  back, 
My  party  piqued  that  I  had  missed  the  track, 
I  saw  an  avalanche  start — dash  upon 
A  spot  on  the  trail  below,  where  oft  anon 
Rested  those  I  guided  on  the  ascent — 
Now  swept  by  avalanche  in  swift  descent; 
Instant  death,  undoubted,  in  its  dread  wake: 
We — a  people  saved  by  my  slight  mistake — 
Then  knew,  another  Guide  had  guided  me; 
There  we  knelt  and  worshipped  Him — Deity! 
Since,  tho  still  I  seek  to  avoid  mistake, 
Yet — dear  God!  I  pray  thaf'Thou,  my  soul  may  take." 

63 


WILD  CALL  THE  ECHOES  O'ER  THE  LOCH  0' 
KATRINE 

WILD  call  the  echoes  o'er  the  Loch  0'  Katrine, 
Calling  the  name  of  my  lost  Love  again; 
Clanking  the  links  of  a  Heart's  broken  chain, 
Ah!    Mock  me  no  more.    Thy  call  is  in  vain; 
My  forgotten — my  lost  Love — my  darling — Norine! 

Oh!     Why  did  I  seek  you?     Ye  tarn  waters  green? 

Why  did  I  call  that  once  fond  cherished  name? 
Now  wildly  sounding  in  Echo's  acclaim — 

O'er  the  dark  waters  heard,  in  mocking  scream; 
My  forgotten — my  lost  Love — my  darling — Norine! 

Oh!    If  ghosts  of  Memory  could  bring  you,  my  Queen — 
Bring  you  back  to  these  reaching  arms  again; 

You,  with  your  smiles  cruel  arrowed  with  pain — 
Would  I  hold  you,  clasp  you,  my  old  Love  slain? 

My  forgotten — my  lost  Love — my  darling — Norine! 

Tell  me,  wild  Echoes,  of  the  Loch  0'  Katrine, 
Can  an  old  Love,  cleansed  of  its  folly  and  shame, 

Be  lighted  again,  its  once  innocent  flame? 
Ah!    How  coldly  they  answer — that  mocking  name; 

My  forgotten — my  lost  Love — my  darling — Norine! 


64 


WHERE  THE  DOGTOOTH  VIOLETS  GROW 

ON  a  shady  slope  near  a  bank  of  snow, 
Where  they  hear  the  sounding  river  below 
And  all  above  is  the  June  sun's  glow — 
That's  where  the  dogtooth  violets  grow. 

Where  moonbeams  their  gleam  thru  the  spruces  throw 
And  pale  dim  star  shadows  come  and  go; 
Standing  asleep  with  their  heads  drooped  low — 
That's  where  the  dogtooth  violets  grow. 

When  Dawn's  billows  of  rose  the  peaks  o'erflow 
And  the  Main  Range  wakes  as  the  Morn  winds  blow; 
With  parted  lips  their  kiss  to  bestow — 
That's  where  the  dogtooth  violets  grow. 

GOOD  STARTING  WEATHER 

PERFECT,  with  golden  promise  beaming, 
The  morning  sun  mounts  a  cloudless  sky 

Thru  many  days  of  summer  in  the  Vale. 
As  oft,  the  mountaineer,  discerning, 
Loth  to  disappoint  the  tourist  shy, 

Will  confident,  repeat  his  ancient  tale: 
"Good  starting  weather,  Friend,"  he'll  say, 
"Tho  it  might  rain  sometime  today." 

It  did — by  noon,  the  mist  clouds  teeming, 
Afternoon  was  storm'd  by  threat'nings  high; 

Hail,  rain,  sleet,  and  wild  tempestuous  gale. 
As  guest  returns,  him,  mountaineer  greeting — 
With  comforts  serving,  hiding  humor  sly; 
He'll  impudent  repeat  his  ancient  tale: 
"Good  starting  weather,  Friend,"  he'll  say, 
"Tho  I  thought  it  might  rain  today." 


65 


BEAR 


BEAR!    Grizzly,  silver-tip,  black,  cinnamon,  brown, 
Related  families,  but  different  grown. 
Great  Beast,  once  mortal  feared,  now  better  known; 
But  in  that  fear  slain,  'till  its  species — prone 
Slaughtered,  exterminated,  now  shy  roam 
Those  regions  far  remote  it  dares  call  home. 
Tis  rare  they've  sought  the  life  of  peaceful  man; 
Invariable,  they've  rather  walked  and  ran, 
Unless  the  cub-protecting  mother  dam, 
Attacked,  instinctive  charges  to  maul  and  maim; 
Or  startled  Grizzly,  roused,  tracked  to  his  den, 
Will  rise  to  crush  intruding,  hunting  men. 
More  oft  they  seek  the  wild  bee's  honey  sweet, 
Roots,  insects,  fruits,  than  kill  for  sodden  meat. 

Evidence  of  late,  fresh  tracks,  straying  cubs, 
Reveal  the  sore  thin'd  band  now  hopeful  rubs 
Its  maw  within  the  Nation's  Park — safe  bounds; 
Where,  protected,  they  soon  will  gain  those  grounds 
Which  fear,  and  sport,  and  much  sought  after  pelt, 
Nigh  cost  their  kind  the  sense  of  living  felt. 

What  sentiment  is  this?  of  Modern  day? 

Benev'lent  care  of  Species,  faithfully: 

Not  harbored  for  Royalty's  hunting  play 

For  wretched  serfs  to  murmur  jealously, 

But  grandly  parked  for  Free  Democracy 

To  see — and  seeing,  lose  the  lust  to  slay. 

Who  knows?    Besides  this — is  that  future  Day, 

When  Civilization  in  full  array 

Presents  all  species,  breeds,  kinds,  Millennium 

Perfected— "And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

Bear!    Vast  bulk  of  furred  kind.     Ursus  of  the  Den! 
Human-like,  half  man,  berry  gathering  Bruin; 
Propagate  again  your  numbers  as  of  old, 
Let  the  Park's  broad  borders  be  your  own  home  fold. 


66 


Nothing  is  more  dangerous  to  the  mountain  climber,  especially 
when  exploring  the  upper  walls  of  the  Continental  Divide,  than 
certain  areas  of  decayed  or  rotten  granite;  which,  reduced,  thru  age 
of  alternate  action  of  sun  and  frost,  a  process  perpetually  present  in 
those  high  altitudes,  to  a  thin  crust  of  crumbling  fragments  treacher 
ously  covering  and  appearing,  unless  one  is  keenly  vigilant,  like  the 
real  solid  formation  lying  beneath,  and  which,  when  stepped  upon, 
will  instantly  give  way  under  the  foot  with  a  motion  so  rapid  and 
accelerated  as  to  make  foot  recovery,  finger,  or  staff  hold  impossible, 
until  one  falls  to  solid  or  firmer  terrain. 

If  the  climber  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  encounter,  step,  and  fall 
upon  such  a  formation  lying  immediately  above  cliffs  or  perpendicular 
walls,  he  is  doomed  to  plunge,  crushed  and  mangled,  to  unknown 
depths. 

To  the  boldest  mountaineer,  the  treachery  and  alarming  poten 
tiality  of  decayed  granite  lying  upon  a  dangerous  slope  is  positively 
terrifying;  and  to  step  incautiously  upon  a  spot  thus  lurking,  vividly 
suggests  the  sudden  stepping  upon  a  snake  so  coiled  as  to  instantly 
give  way,  squirming,  beneath  your  foot  and  at  the  same  time  striking 
quick  terror  to  your  soul  and  causing  you  to  so  lose  your  equilibrium 
as  to  fall  with  consequences  violent  according  to  the  depth  and 
nature  of  the  slope  beneath  you.  Decayed  granite  is  far  more  dan 
gerous  to  traverse  than  snow,  for  snow  will  pack  under  the  foot  and 
support  a  staff,  but  disintegrated  granite  will  roll  with  incredible 
motion  under  the  pressure  of  the  foot,  almost  like  masses  of  tiny 
and  loose  ball-bearings. 


THE  SNAKE  THAT  IS  ROCK 

A10NG  the  perils  which  lurk  the  Rockies 
Where  they  steepest  and  highest  rise; 
A  lofty  chimney,  fissure,  or  hollow, 
O'erhanging  cliffs,  mist-wet,  from  skies; 
Are  slopes  and  ledges  of  granite  decayed, 

Which  seem  safe  to  unheeding  eyes; 
Yet  there,  unwarned,  and  stepping  incautious, 

A  man  falls  to  death  in  the  shock; 
'Tis  the  dread  rock  that  is  coiled  like  a  snake— 
The  Snake  that  is  treacherous  Rock. 


67 


Oft  the  bones  of  a  dead,  bleaching  victim, 

Lie  white  at  the  foot  of  the  Steep, 
Where  former  a  man  sought  his  footing 

On  the  back  of  a  Thing  asleep; 
For  when,  up  the  breast  of  the  slope,  half  way, 

He  slipped,  dropped  to  death  in  the  sweep, 
He  knew,  as  he  plunged  o'er  the  precipice, 

The  dread  Thing  that  gave  him  the  shock; 
Twas  only  the  rock  coiled  up  like  a  snake — 

The  Snake  that  is  treacherous  Rock. 

No  use  to  clutch  at  the  slip'ry  monster 

As  it  creeps  up  from  depths  below; 
Its  scales  elude  your  desperate  fingers — 

You  are  fated  to  downward  go; 
It  has  coiled  thus  for  eons  of  ages 

To  sudden  hurl  you  to  your  woe. 
So  beware  of  the  Slope's  rotten  granite — 

Take  no  chance  with  the  fatal  Shock; 
Beware  of  the  rock  coiled  up  like  a  snake — 

The  Snake  that  is  treacherous  Rock. 


AFAR  THE  MOUNTAIN  CALLS  ME 

AFAR,  the  Mountain  calls  me — 
/-\  I  must  go, 

To  see  the  golden  sunrise 

Gild  the  drifting  snow; 
To  hear  the  wild  winds'  council 

As  they  surge  and  blow; 
To  meet  the  dark  cliff  shadows 

'Neath  the  moon's  white  glow. 

Ah!     If  Secrets  of  the  Silence 
You  would  learn  and  know; 

Would  feel  the  lips  of  Solitude 
Press  your  thought-bent  brow 

Far — Far  upon  the  Mountain 
You  must  go. 


68 


Chasm  Lake  is  a  subject  inseparable  from  Longs  Peak  and  its  an 
cient  Glacier— the  hoary  association  and  affinity  of  the  three  have 
produced  the  premier  scene  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park. 

The  way  to  the  Lake  branches  to  the  southwest  at  Timberline 
from  the  historic  trail  to  the  summit  of  Longs  Peak  and  is  marked  by 
stone  cairns  the  full  distance.  Horses  are  usually  left  at  the  west 
end  of  Great  Moraine  where  it  debouches  from  Lady  Washington, 
for  from  there  the  way  is  a  narrow  foot  trail  which  skirts  the  deep 
East  Gorge  of  Longs  close  under  the  cliffs  of  Lady  Washington,  with 
views  of  Peacock  Pool,  often  mistaken  by  tenderfeet  for  the  Lake 
itself,  Columbine  Falls,  and  other  flashing  waters  spurting  from 
various  upper  regions  of  the  tremendous  cirque  hollowed  by  ice, 
rain,  and  wind,  out  of  Lady,  Longs,  and  Meeker.  Interesting 
bands  of  rock  strata,  wonderful  and  fantastic  battlements,  castles, 
towers,  and  other  sublime  configurations  are  seen  aloft  on  the  north 
precipices  of  Meeker,  displaying  marvelous  vistas  of  alternate 
shadow  and  light  under  the  play  of  the  sun,  the  prevailing  tones 
being  seal  and  red  browns  of  surpassing  richness,  mingled  with 
shining  gold  and  bronze  russets.  The  gorge  trail  ends  at  the  foot 
of  the  massive  east  dyke  of  the  Lake  and  the  cairns  skirt  the  base 
of  it  among  lovely  pools  and  rills  of  sparkling  waters  rimmed  with 
pads  and  velvets  of  exquisite  moss,  with  areas  of  alpine  flowers  on 
every  hand  and  one  often  encounters  flocks  of  ptarmigan  here. 
With  a  last  steep  scramble  one  scales  the  dyke  and  stands  on  the 
eastern  rim  of  the  Lake  amid  a  world  unto  itself,  isolated,  solitary, 
remote  from  animate  life,  tree,  or  shrub. 

The  surface  of  the  Lake  lies  at  an  altitude  of  11,943  feet,  or 
2,312  feet  under  the  summit  of  Longs;  its  depth,  at  this  writing,  1921, 
is  unknown,  but  its  area  is  about  six  acres.  Standing  on  the  dyke  and 
looking  east,  one  can  look  thru  the  saddle  and  above  the  summits  of 
the  Twin  Sisters  at  the  Great  Plains  beyond,  many  miles  away.  On 
this  dyke  are  great  monoliths  of  granite  and  schist  set  up  on  small 
rocks  as  tho  ready  to  be  moved  or  cut  to  form;  this  was  the  work  of 
the  Glacier.  Some  of  the  granite  here  contains  dark  red  pebbly 
crystals  resembling  garnets.  The  Lake  is  frozen  nearly  eleven 
months  of  the  year  and  usually  does  not  open  much  until  the  last  of 
July  and  ice-bergs  float  in  it  during  August,  when  it  starts  to  freeze 
again.  The  contrast  of  the  dyke's  magnificent  masses  of  polished 
granite  reaching  far  down  to  unknown  subterranean  depths  of  melting 
cobalt  aqua  which  laps  banks  of  white  snow  on  the  near  shore  simply 
beggars  description.  A  small  cave  of  ice  opens  in  the  northeast 
bend  of  the  shore  and  on  the  dyke  near  the  southeast  shore  are 
masses  of  tilted  stone  affording  shelter  from  rain  and  storm. 

The  cliffs  of  the  Chasm  can  be  scaled  between  Longs  and  Lady, 
and  Meeker  and  Longs,  and  all  three  of  these  peaks  can  be  climbed 
from  thence  by  making  detours  from  the  rims  of  the  Chasm.  Be 
tween  Lady  and  Longs,  tremendous  quantities  of  snow  are  blown 
from  the  Boulder  Field  into  the  Chasm,  forming  drifts,  scores  of  feet 
in  depth,  and  in  a  great  cleft  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the  Chasm, 
close  under  Longs,  cowers  the  ghostly  remnant  of  the  ancient 
Glacier,  a  mass  of  perpetual  ice  standing  at  an  acute  angle,  nearly 
a  half  mile  long  and  high,  and  almost  completely  shaded  from  its  old 
enemy,  the  Sun,  and  replenished  annually  by  vast  snows  swept  off 
the  Peak  in  winter, 

69 


In  mild  weather  and  sunshine  the  Chasm  is  bearable,  in  fact, 
lovely  in  mood  at  times,  reveling  in  sun,  sky,  and  bright  waving 
water,  but  under  cloud,  mist,  and  storm,  it  is  the  most  inhospitable  of 
regions.  A  light  cloud  floating  across  the  summit  of  Longs,  as 
viewed  from  the  Lake,  is  the  most  sublime  of  spectacles;  and  the 
crest  of  Longs,  a  shadow  cast  by  the  setting  sun  or  moon  on  the 
bosom  of  the  Lake,  is  a  phenomenon  exciting  the  deepest  emotions. 
Various  echoes  can  be  aroused  on  the  different  walls  of  the  Chasm  and 
it  is  a  noticeable  human  trait,  that  one  is  almost  invariably  tempted 
to  arouse  them. 

Lamb,  Chapin,  and  others  have  haunted  the  Chasm  with  constant 
exploring  interest  and  many  visitors,  mechanically  or  commercially 
inclined,  delight  in  speculating  on  different  tram,  boat,  raft,  airplane, 
cable,  balloon,  elevator,  and  other  mechanisms  designed  to  connect 
the  shore  of  the  Lake  with  the  summit  of  Longs  Peak  and  quite 
horrifying  to  the  nature  lover  who  venerates  and  worships  the 
sublime  solitary  solemnity  of  the  place. 


CHASM  LAKE 

CME,  fair  Women  and  Men! 
Zome,  Spirits  and  Children! 
Come,  ye  Gods  of  the  Mountains,  to  hear! 

Here's  a  Story  for  Thee — 

Writ  by  Eternity — 

Wild  Tale  of  a  thousand,  thousand  Year! 

When  the  Ages  looked  down  on  the  Mountain's  pride- 
As  the  Years  watched  the  flow  of  the  icy  tide; 
When  Fate  set  the  Law  and  the  dread  Glacier  died — 
Where  the  deep  Pit  was  dug  and  the  Ages  cried; 
Then  a  bright  Lake  was  born  in  its  azure  tide — 
Waters  of  Solace  born  of  arrogant  Pride! 

THE  MOUNTAIN 

The  Ages  looked  down  on  a  mighty  Peak, 

So  vast,  its  sheer  height,  it  ne'er  deigned  to  speak, 
Thousands  of  feet  above  all  other  mounts 

It  stood  in  that  Pride  which  Nature  discounts. 
As  true  as  that  tree  whose  high  sovranty 

Rears  its  boughs  and  bulk  proud  o'er  the  lea; 
As  true  as  that  star  whose  huge  planetry 

Sweeps  lour  the  shores  of  the  Milky  Way  sea; 

70 


Comes  that  hour  of  Fate,  as  the  Ages  look  on, 
When  tree,  star,  and  peak,  in  high  derision, 

Slip  prone  to  their  earth  or  unfathomed  tide — 

Whether  tree,  peak,  or  star,  they  fall  in  their  Pride. 

Great  Peak! 

Still  proud — yet  chastened,  humbled  low  to  God. 

Grim  Survivor! 

Of  limb,  bowel,  and  feature,  cruel  shod; 

Like  Abbe  Sieyes,  whom  the  Third  Estate  shrived — 

Like  him,  high  Sierra,  say  softly,  "I  lived." 

Tho  shattered,  riven,  cleft — fearfully  torn, 
Yet  beats  within  You  your  stone  meshed  heart; 
As  long  as  God  rolls  the  Planet  afar 
You  shall  stand  in  the  glory  of  chiseled  Art. 

Victor  alike,  o'er  earthquake,  the  glacier,  and  frost — 
Triumphant  o'er  all — tho  the  battle  oft  lost — 
To  know  You  were  bless'd  by  the  Hand  that  cut  low, 
To  greet  ever  snow-plumed  the  Sun  in  its  glow. 

From  the  Lake's  eastern  rim — massive  granite  hewn 

dyke- 
The  Eye  dares  to  glance  at  You,  still  unconquer'd 

Height. 

As  it  pauses  to  quaff  the  steep'd  Andean  draught — 
Vision  stupendous,  engulfing  beamiest  sight — 
A  cherubim  Cloud  fondles  your  tremendous  brow: 
Great  God!    Overwhelmed  are  Babylon'd  towers  now, 
For  the  Cloud,  darling  Contrast,  o'er  your  head  curling 

soars, 

Affording  Distance  which  perfect  Perspective  adores; 
Spectacle  holy!  The  quick  Soul  swoons  in  that  Kiss 
Which  the  Cloud  on  the  Mountain  soft  presses  in  bliss! 

So — As  the  Years  looked  up  to  the  Ages, 
And  the  Ages  looked  up  to  Time; 
And  Time,  forgetting  his  Eons, 
Slow  eternal  to  God  did  climb, 

71 


The  Peak  was  gripped  by  the  Glacier; 
The  Glacier  a  deep  Chasm  gnawed: 
A  Pit  where  the  icy  jaws  weltered; 

Where  fiercely  the  Ice  Monarch  clawed. 
Then  was  formed  bowl  of  frost  alabaster 

Which  once  the  Glacier's  white  milk  overflowed; 
Now,  brimmed  by  bright  waters  pure  filtered — 
Chasm  Lake — where  men  stand  overawed! 

THE  CHASM 

On  the  Peak  came  the  ice-pack — the  dread  Glacier's 

thrall- 
As  the  Ages  looked  down  on  the  Mountain  so  tall. 
At  first  it  was  sea  that  washed  His  bronzed  feet, 

Then  'twas  rain,  then  snow,  then  thickening  sleet; 
Then  a  region  of  ice — polar  waves  of  cold  blue — 
Instead  of  regal  Mountain,  the  Ages  did  view. 
That  proud  Height  which  they  loved — once  so  nobly 

enskied — 

Now  clutched  by  the  Glacier  in  the  strength  of  His 
pride. 

Then  again  spoke  Fate  as  the  Ages  looked  on — 

This  time  it  prevailed  in  fondest  compassion; 
From  the  sky  it  swept  clouds  and  fast  falling  snow 

To  let  in  the  bright  Sun  on  the  ice  below. 
Oh,  fearful  the  Glacier  threshed  and  writhed  in  its  pain, 

Its  throes  opened  crevasses  and  closed  them  again. 
Sweat,  as  steam, filled  the  air — congealed  to  warm  rain — 

Which  helped  melt  the  ice,  that  ran  off  as  a  stream. 
At  last  the  great  Peak  thru  the  white  crust  thrust  its 
head; 

Ah,  ruin  and  wreckage  on  that  Helm  now  instead 
Of  that  glory  of  brow  that  once  o'ertopped  the  sky; 

By  thousands  of  feet  lowered  now,  it  was  to  try, 
If  His  pride  was  reduced  to  good  fellowship  true 

Towards  neighboring  heights  which  His  first  pride 
never  knew. 

As  the  Ages  looked  on,  they  soft  nodded  their  brows — 
From  them  Fate  took  the  cue  which  now  Everyone 
knows — 

When  one  has  true  Pride  and  'tis  tamed  by  the  Law; 
When  so  tamed  it  will  worship  in  purest  awe. 

72 


And  still  the  Ages  looked  wond'ring  on,  ever  on — 

Dreadful  the  Glacier  struggled  and  panted  anon, 
For  both  Peak  and  the  Sun  in  warrior  strength 

Battled  the  fell  Ice  till  it  measured  its  length; 
And  where  once  the  great  Mountain  had  towering 
height, 

It  now  had  wide  ruin  heaped  far  in  its  sight; 
The  spoil  of  the  Glacier  spread — crag,  summit,  and  rock, 

Torn  from  the  Mountain  thru  eons  of  shock; 
Vast  wreck  of  cliff,  of  strata,  of  granite,  of  slide; 

A  Chasm  deep  gnawed  where  the  huge  Glacier  died. 

Fell  Chasm! 

Profound  abyss  where  the  blind  Terrors  lurk — 
Snakes  of  Void  coiled  in  the  abysmal  Cirque — 
Specters  and  Phantoms  of  lowering  Cloud — 
Witches  of  Shadow  and  ghostly  mist  Shroud! 

No  grass,  no  flower,  no  daring  tree, 

Lives  by  the  shore  of  your  Hermit  Sea. 

No  fowl,  no  rat,  no  animate  breed, 

But  finds  here  scanty  fodder  or  feed. 

Naught,  save  bleached  ribs  where  the  Glacier  died — 

Naught,  save  the  bones  of  the  Peak  of  Pride! 

Stygian  Vault!    Eternal  winter  is  here. 

The  arch  Fiend  himself  would  here  misery  fear; 

With  his  form  engulfed  in  the  Watery  Fell, 

His  breast  bare  and  naked  to  the  ice  bites  of  Hell. 

Should  the  God  of  Inferno  e'er  change  ice  to  fire — 

Should  brimstone  and  lava  fill  this  awful  Pit  dire — 

The  great  Fiend  in  this  oven  would  swelter  and  roar; 

Flames  fearful  and  molten  would  here  maugre  him  sore. 

Dark  Chamber  of  Echo!     The  calling  Nymph  here, 
Is  wild  Demon,  answ'ring  in  blare  mocking  sneer. 
In  this  Cavern,  gray  ghost  of  Medusa  broods  in  Gloom; 
Swirling  fogs  haunt  the  damp  Dens — sunbeams  they 

entomb. 
Oh!     Fearful    abyss — when    black    Night — bellowing 

Storm — 
Fill  your  Caves  of  Perdition  with  howling  Alarm! 

73 


So — As  the  Years  looked  up  to  the  Ages 
And  the  Ages  looked  up  to  Time; 
And  Time,  forgetting  his  Eons, 

Slow  eternal  to  God  did  climb, 
The  Peak  was  gripped  by  the  Glacier; 
The  Glacier  a  deep  Chasm  gnawed: 
A  Pit  where  the  icy  jaws  weltered; 

Where  fiercely  the  Ice  Monarch  clawed. 
Then  was  formed  bowl  of  frost  alabaster 

Which  once  the  Glacier's  white  milk  overflowed; 
Now,  brimmed  by  bright  waters  pure  filtered — 
Chasm  Lake — where  men  stand  overawed! 

THE  LAKE 

The  grieved  Ages  wept  as  the  great  Mountain  shone, 

Head  sunk  low  in  the  West,  His  sin  to  atone; 
By  those  thousands  of  feet  that  from  Him  were  shorn 

In  the  pride  of  His  height  when  the  Ice  was  born; 
And  tho  yet  He  was  lord  over  every  peak  head, 

In  spite  of  the  ravage  that  lay  round  Him  far  spread, 
The  Ages  remembered  the  day  of  His  pride, 

And  as  they  remembered  the  Ages  soft  cried. 

Then  deep  in  the  Pit  which  the  fell  Glacier  gnawed 

The  tears  of  the  Ages  fell  fast  in  pure  flood; 
And  when  they  had  done,  the  Mountain,  in  love, 

Peered  shyly  down  on  His  friends  from  above; 
'Twas  then,  at  His  feet,  pool  of  bright  waters  He  saw, 

The  tears  of  the  Ages,  tho  they  well  knew  the  Law, 
These  Waters  of  Solace  born  of  arrogant  Pride — 

Grief 'd  Cistern  of  Tears  that  the  Ages  soft  cried. 

They  were  shed  for  the  Mountain,  tho  some  reached  the 
Plain, 

Those  Waters  of  Solace,  His  sweet  comfort  from  pain; 
Where  a  thundering  Ocean  once  swept  His  bronzed  feet, 

The  Waters  of  Solace  now  more  gently  repeat, 
This  office  so  humble,  yet  needed  by  all, 

For  none  are  so  great  but  Pride  bringeth  their  fall. 
So  the  Sunset  red  glows  on  the  great  Mountain's  snows 

As  the  Waters  of  Solace  reflect  His  bright  brows; 
They  press  their  soft  surges  on  His  warrior  feet — 

On  His  lips  they  press  kisses  in  mirrorings  sweet. 

74 


Lake  of  the  Chasm! 

Violet  waters  embowled  in  the  whitest  of  snow, 
Flashing  bright  gilded  blue  where  the  mid  ripples  flow. 
Every  warm  blushing  mood  of  your  sister,  Sky, 
You  rivalest — with  chameleon'd  imagery  vie. 
Mere  of  the  Ages — born  to  your  Peak — 
From  His  rib,  like  Eva,  to  caress  and  speak 
Soft  words  of  endearment  to  that  unmoved  brow, 
Save  in  Sunset  embraces,  lingering  low  in  your  lap — 
In  reflection,  sweet  Mere,  Him  you  fondle  and  chaff 
With  gold  sparkling  glances  in  summering  glow — 
In  winter,  long  winter,  He  clasps  your  white  snow. 

Dear  Wave— Soft 'ning  Pool! 
How  wondrous  that  Rule? 
Naught  so  stern  'in  all  Nature,  rock  or  sea, 
But  some  winsome  Waft  of  sweet  femininity, 
Woos  the  granite,  the  iron,  the  fast  fixed  rock- 
No  Element  so  resisting,  but  loves  the  dear  Shock. 

As  distant  Star,  the  thin  compass  bar  feels — 
As  artist's  Sketch,  Ocean,  surfing,  reveals; 
As  fingered  Palm,  Span  of  Life  plain  portrays, 
Each  fleshed  line  presenting  Secret  of  Days; 
As  sweet  Woman's  pure  breast  when  tenderest  it  feeds, 
The  Christ,  Saint  and  Sinner,  infants  holy,  their  needs; 
So  the  Mountain  stoops  down  at  the  Call  of  its  Mate — 
Longs  Peak  never  smiles  save  in  the  Arms  of  its  Lake! 

So — As  the  Years  look  up  to  the  Ages 
And  the  Ages  look  up  to  Time; 
And  Time,  forgetting  his  Eons, 

Still  eternal  to  God  does  climb; 
Where  Peak  was  gripped  by  the  Glacier — 
Where  Glacier  a  deep  Chasm  gnawed — 
That  Pit  where  the  icy  jaws  weltered— 
Where  fiercely  the  Ice  Monarch  clawed; 
Where  was  formed  bowl  of  frost  alabaster 

Which  once  the  Glacier's  white  milk  overflowed; 
Now  waves  oberland's  wildest  water — 

Chasm  Lake — where  men  stand  overawed! 


75 


CONIES 

On  January  10,  1922,  Jack  Moomaw,  the  St.  Vrain  poet,  accom 
plished  the  remarkable  feat  of  ascending  Longs  Peak  in  deep  mid 
winter.  The  only  living  thing  he  observed  on  the  summit  of  the 
great  mountain,  darting  among  the  rocks  and  snow,  was  a  tiny  cony. 

THE  Cony,  alpine  rabbit,  little  hare; 
Darting  pika,  among  the  slide  rocks  bare. 
Rock  dwelling,  as  ancient  Bible  words  declare, 
"A  feeble  folk,"  calling  from  their  burrows  there. 
How,  on  many  a  winding  mountain  trail, 
Climbing  the  steep — breasting  the  gusty  gale — 
I've  heard  its  shrill  crying,  seen  it  feeding; 
O'er  the  splintered  ledges  seen  it  speeding. 
The  Cony,  "little  chief  hare,"  Indian  name, 
Calling  'mid  the  talus,  tiny,  timid,  game; 
Warning  its  mates  of  eagle,  hawk,  and  foe— 
E'en  here,  'mong  bleak  slopes  lurking,  Death's  woe. 
Cony,  to  Traveler,  knowing  its  kind, 
Brings  the  far  hills  of  Judea  to  mind; 
Where  Solomon  in  his  Proverbs  once  penned, 
"Conies,  a  folk  among  the  rocks  snug  denned." 

A  FOGGY  MORNING  IN  JUNE 

T^HE  Day  is  loath  to  break.    Submerged  in  mist, 
J[  The  Vale  is  steeped  in  somn'lence  sleepiest. 

Faintly  the  hermit  thrushes  timid  call 
To  Morning,  all  unseen  amid  the  pall 
Of  vapors  ashen  gray,  hiding  the  sun; 
Hares  start  from  thickets,  nibbling  as  they  run. 
Grouse  scurry  among  the  shrouding  phantoms — 
From  copse,  the  tim'rous  song  of  kinglet  comes. 
All  abroad,  the  landscape  seems  so  unreal, 
As  white  the  ghostly  mist  wraiths  creep  and  steal. 

Soon  the  finest  dim  sheen  of  gold  is  seen 
Aloft,  where  thinnest  the  gray  vapors  screen; 
'Tis  the  beam  of  mounting  Sun,  seeking  Earth — 
Hot,  insistent  to  grant  the  Day  its  birth. 
This,  the  cock  detects,  sounds  clarion  clear; 
Afar,  the  Vale  echoes  his  note  of  cheer. 

76 


The  cattle  low,  the  horses  in  the  stall 
Shrill  whinny,  as  they  hear  the  barnyard  call. 
Now,  up  above,  the  Sun  has  won  his  right — 
Fast  the  gray  mists  writhe  in  careening  flight. 

Studding  the  storied  West  are  dimp's  of  blue; 
Sky  again  assumes  its  natural  hue, 
With  thin  streamers  of  mists  among  the  Crests, 
Dissolving,  mid-air,  as  the  Sun  invests. 
Soon  the  great  peaks  stand  forth  in  brilliant  noon; 
Light  slays  the  struggling  foe  to  dying  swoon. 
The  white  snow-fields  reveal  a  fairer  breast — 
Their  paps,  by  the  warm  streaming  mists  refresht. 
All  verdure,  forest,  grass,  and  pastures  green, 
Crisp  and  succulent  have  dew-nectared  been. 
Once  more  the  Vale  resumes  its  Golden  June — 
The  joyous  birds  renew  their  mating  tune. 
Below,  sea  of  fog  stretches  o'er  the  Plains — 
The  lowlands  linger  in  its  damp  domains. 

THE  MOUNTAIN-LAND 

TE  Mountain-land!     The  Mountain-land! 
Where  wild  Winds  meet  and  gather — 

And  Storms,  their  legends  tell, 
To  Peaks  and  Summits  list'ning 

As  they  stand  sentinel. 
Dear  Oberland!        Dear  Oberland! 

Land  of  laurel,  green-boughed  pine  and  spruce- 
Land  of  flowery  dell; 
The  wildest  Land  is  the  Mountain-land 
Where  the  Sons  of  Freedom  dwell. 

The  Mountain-land!     The  Mountain-land! 
Where  Tyrants  kneel  to  Free  men 

And  Despots  find  their  Cell. 
Land,  when  the  tocsin  loud  peals, 

Brave  arms  the  foe  repel. 
Dear  Oberland!     Dear  Oberland! 

Land  of  David,  Ethan  Allen,  Bruce — 

Land  of  Owen  and  of  Tell; 
The  truest  Land  is  the  Mountain-land 

Where  the  Sons  of  Freedom  dwell. 


77 


The  Mountain-land!     The  Mountain-land! 
Home  of  sturdy  Pioneer 

Where  harvest  valleys  swell; 
Where  Liberty  and  Labor 

To  Evils  sound  the  knell. 
Dear  Oberland!        Dear  Oberland! 
Land  where  Patriot  hopes  rest  verdant 

On  the  Nation's  citadel — 
The  strongest  Land  is  the  Mountain-land 

Where  the  Sons  of  Freedom  dwell. 


Wherever  the  traveler  dares  the  higher  slopes  of  the  oberland, 
the  familiar  bole  of  the  limber-pine,  Pinus  flexilis,  in  company 
with  the  engelmann  spruce,  Picea  engelmanni — the  former  on  the 
crests,  the  latter  in  the  hollows — waves  and  cheers  him  on  to  the 
heights  and,  returning,  greets  him  in  the  ever  welcome,  fresh,  and 
sheltering  hospitality  of  the  green  and  aromatic  conifer. 

When  driven  from  the  bare  steeps  above  timber-line  by  biting 
tempest  and  storm,  and  suddenly  entering  an  advanced  clump  and 
growth  of  these  friendly  trees,  a  sense  of  instant  relief  and  gratitude  is 
experienced  by  the  peak-climber:  these  silent  sentinels  often  hear 
the  warm  invocations  of  many  a  thankful  soul,  which,  wind-blown, 
chilled,  weary,  and  lonesome,  enjoys  a  feeling  of  protection,  security, 
and  companionship,  amid  the  gently  soughing  boughs  of  nature's 
sturdiest,  highest  dwelling  trees. 

The  limber-pine  is  observed  in  isolated  companies  or  in  generous 
dominance  on  most  of  the  mountain  slopes  from  the  middle  to  the 
upper  oberland,  where,  on  the  crests  of  the  latter,  it  reigns  supreme. 
Of  considerable  girth,  height,  and  symmetry  in  its  lower  habitat,  yet 
at  timber-line,  its  outliers  stunt  to  mere  bushes.  In  some  localities, 
crests  of  mountains  east  of  the  Main  Range  attaining  high  exposed 
altitudes,  it  grows  with  immense  girth  but  stunts  in  the  top,  pre 
senting  squat  aspects,  quaintly  grotesque;  taking  root  at  the  base  of 
some  ledge  or  rock  on  the  crest  the  tree  grows  fairly  normal  until  it 
begins  to  project  over  the  summit  of  the  ridge — the  crest  of  the 
mountain — when,  there  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the  gale,  it 
begins  to  stunt,  resulting  in  great  girth,  small  low  top.  This  pine 
can  also  be  found  in  all  stages  of  growth,  decay,  and  death  at  timber- 
line  in  reality,  the  battle-line  of  tree  and  weather,  on  the  main  ranges 
of  the  Park.  At  this  point  the  observer  often  finds  himself  among 
whole  companies  of  their  dead,  bleaching,  mummified  forms,  stand 
ing  upright,  erect,  and  defiant,  even  in  death;  while  others,  their 
bark  and  even  the  fiber  of  the  trunk  themselves,  on  the  exposed 
weather  side,  usually  the  northwest,  killed  and  ground  away  by 
flying  sand,  gravel,  and  ice,  driven  against  them  by  the  terrific 
prolonged  gales  of  the  winter  season;  but  on  the  other  side,  life  still 
persisting  and  will,  until  the  trunks  are  finally  girdled  or  uprooted 
and  cast  down  by  some  particularly  violent  blast  or  they  persist 
in  a  growth  of  which  the  increased  bulk  offers  a  continually  broaden 
ing  mark  to  the  enemy — a  sad  and  inevitable  ultimatum. 

78 


On  the  East  slope  of  the  Main  Range  and  the  Longs  Peak  group, 
it  often,  in  company  with  the  engelmann,  takes  root  behind  an  ad 
vanced,  protecting  rock,  and,  in  its  eternal  battle  for  existence  and  its 
daring  persistence  in  endeavoring  to  advance  its  species  against  the 
arctic  blasts  of  the  higher  altitudes,  most  wonderfully  project  its 
growth  in  exact  conformity  with  the  shape  and  contour  of  the  stone; 
the  stunted  trunks  and  weathered  branches  forming  pillared  arbors 
and  bowers  of  curious  formation.  The  tremendous  abatised  matted 
areas  of  the  two  species  occupy  large  tracts  of  the  high  country 
forming  a  formidable  barrier  against  man  and  beast,  but  providing 
splendid  harbor  for  small  game  and  birds. 

When  green,  the  wood  of  the  limber-pine  is  very  pitchy,  but  dried 
and  seasoned,  it  yields  a  fragrant  constant  scent  similar  to  cedar;  and 
on  account  of  its  fine  grain,  due  to  its  very  slow  growth  on  exposed 
heights,  the  annual  rings  being  very  fine,  and  its  light  pinkish  color, 
it  is  sometimes  called  Colorado  mahogany.  Its  fresh  cones  are  sticky 
masses  of  fat  pitch  and  oil,  and  when  dried,  yield  seeds  which  are 
sometimes  extracted  and  eaten,  being  similar  to  pinon-nuts  and  a 
favorite  food  of  the  Clarke  crow. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LIMBER-PINE 

r~|~"sHERE'S  a  trail  on  yonder  mountain 

On  the  way  to  timber-line; 
It's  a  trail  that  brave  Youth  follows — 

Where  its  daring  hopes  incline. 
Trail  the  Settler  blazed  and  traveled, 

But  in  old  age  doth  decline. 
Trail  that  leads  to  heights  forbidden; 

Where  steep  crest  and  slope  combine 
To  stern  defy  the  old  and  weak — 

Where  the  strong  must  lead  the  line. 
Trail  aloft  to  sentinel  peaks — 

The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

From  the  valley  to^he  mountain — 

Up  steeps  most  wildly  alpine; 
Growths  of  limber-pine  safe  lead  you 

To  where  storm  and  cold  define, 
That  no  higher  shall  the  tree  live — 

Nature  sets  the  grim  dead-line; 
Below — forest's  leafy  domain; 

Above — bare  slopes  only  reign. 
Oh,  the  friendly  welcome  refuge — 

Out  the  bleak  wind's  biting  chine; 
Down  to  piney,  shelt'ring  woodlands — 

The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

79 


Oh!     Loved  path  that  climbs  the  mountain 
'Mong  the  clust'ring  columbine; 
By  the  brook  and  flowing  fountain 
Where  the  blue  mertensias  vine: 
Past  the  waterfall  wild  brawling 
On  the  way  to  timber-line; 

Boughs  of  verdure  sweetly  calling — 
The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

Ah!     Love  knows  your  arbored  winding, 

Green  aisles  of  the  limber-pine; 
Oft  a  maid  a  lover  finding 

On  the  climb  to  timber-line. 
Then  to  the  Peak — its  high  summit 

Grand  objective — 'mid  Noon's  shine; 
In  evening,  down  the  pathway  dim, 

Maid,  your  lover's  hand  in  thine. 
Oh,  the  secrets  of  your  binding, 

Vowed  by  lover's  sweet  design; 
'Mong  the  moonbeams  softly  slanting — 

The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

Tis  a  Path  of  Life  you  show  us, 
Ever  verdant  mountain  pine: 

Steep  slopes  by  youthful  efforts  won — 
High  Ambition's  danger-line — 

In  old  age  those  slopes  descended; 
To  others  those  Heights  resigned, 

Then,  the  old  trail  stretching  downward, 
'Mong  your  branches  arched  and  twined; 

Ways  softer,  fairer;  Yea!  dearer, 
Than  the  days  of  ba^le  line; 

Farewell  to  the  Heights,  Ambition— 
The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

Oh!     Loved  path  that  climbs  the  mountain 
'Mong  the  clust'ring  columbine; 
By  the  brook  and  flowing  fountain 
Where  the  blue  mertensias  vine: 
Past  the  waterfall  wild  brawling 
On  the  way  to  timber-line; 

Boughs  of  verdure  sweetly  calling — 
The  Trail  of  the  Limber-pine. 

80 


CLARKE'S  CROW 

'  I  ^HE  American  Nutcracker,  Clarke's  Crow; 
J^  Gray,  thick  necked,  long  billed,  dark  winged,  light 

below; 

Repulsive,  coarse  squawking;  at  seed  time 
Infesting  growths  of  fat-coned  limber-pine; 
Cracking  the  seed  nuts  of  conifers  fine, 
Their  flocks  manoeuvering  with  flight  sublime, 
Like  bands  of  cruel  Sioux  mounted  superb — 
Wings  roaring  air;  their  harsh  cries  rude  disturb. 
A  voracious  fowl;  fearless,  militant  bird; 
Rough  glutton,  tyrant,  by  smaller  birds  feared 
As  it  seeks  food  near  the  settler's  door  spread; 
Clarke's  Crow,  whose  greed  invites  blows  to  its  head. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  PEAK 

rT^HERE'S  a  lofty  Mountain  reared  in  the  West— 

I        At  its  foot  is  a  cabin  small, 

Where  I  dwell  in  that  peace  and  quiet  rest 

That  comes  to  those  who  call, 
To  a  mother  of  sweet  and  cradl'ing  breast, 

Who  sings  when  the  night  shades  fall; 
This  Mountain  that  rears  its  mighty  crest — 

That  croons  with  its  waterfall. 

There's  a  lofty  Mountain  reared  in  the  sky — 

At  its  foot  is  a  valley  green, 
Where  lillies,  and  roses,  and  violets  shy, 

Grow  wild  in  nooks  unseen; 
Where  the  slopes  of  this  Mountain  raised  so  high 

Are  robed  with  fragrant  pine — 
Where  I  glean  in  the  glades  where  the  west  winds  sigh 

'Mong  the  fields  of  columbine. 

There's  a  lofty  Mountain  that  gleams  in  my  view — 

At  its  foot  is  a  holy  shrine; 
It's  just  the  old  cabin  of  weathered  hue — 

This  dear  little  home  of  mine, 
In  that  valley  so  green  all  kissed  with  dew 

Which  sparkles  in  bright  sunshine, 
'Neath  the  brow  of  the  Mountain  I  love  so  true 

Where  the  waterfall  sings  divine. 

81 


NATURE 

COME  where  the  Voices  are  calling - 
The  woods  in  their  summer  green. 
Come  where  the  Voices  are  calling — 
The  meadows  in  flow'ry  mien. 

Heed  not  the  halls  and  their  revel — 
The  dancing  of  maidens  and  men; 
But  come  to  the  bosom  that  loves  you — 
Come  to  these  arms  again. 

Come  where  the  Voices  are  calling — 
The  moon  with  its  silv'ry  beam. 
Come  where  the  Voices  are  calling — 
The  lake  and  its  winding  stream. 

Heed  not  the  halls  and  their  revel — 

The  dancing  of  maidens  and  men; 

But  come  to  the  bosom  that  loves  you — 
Come  to  these  arms  again. 

Come  where  the  Voices  are  calling — 
My  soul  and  its  tender  dream. 
Come  where  the  Voices  are  calling — 
My  heart  and  its  passioned  theme. 

Heed  not  the  halls  and  their  revel — 

The  dancing  of  maidens  and  men; 

But  come  to  the  bosom  that  loves  you — 
Come  to  these  arms  again. 

THE  CHINOOK 

MILD  Western  Gale— warm  Chinook,  fresh  blowing; 
Toward  the  sunrise,  wind-current,  broad  flowing. 
Sky  river  lade  with  perfumes  orient — 
Spicy  with  mountain  fir's  balsamic  scent — 
As  o'er  the  ranges  your  ocean  moisture 
Extracts  the  attar  from  blooming  verdure. 

Welcome!     Fair  Pacific  Stranger — Salve! 
You,  sweet  from  poppy  fields  of  far  Cathay. 
Before  you  spread  the  avenues  of  Day 
With  rising  sun  to  greet  you  on  the  way. 
Below  you  melts  the  snow  of  Winter's  clime; 
Above  you  arch  the  skies  of  glad  Spring  time. 

82 


Merry,  the  rocking  wild-flowers  greet  you, 
Wanderer  from  where  tropic  trade-winds  blow. 
Rock-cress,  buttercup,  pasque,  anemone, 
Gossiping  as  you  toss  them  frolicky. 
Green  the  meadow  grasses  bend  beneath  you 
As  your  soft  wavings  deep  their  vernal  hue. 

On  to  the  East  your  gusty  surges  boom; 
Shaking  from  willows,  aspens,  leafy  bloom — 
Earth,  with  bud  huskings  and  brown  catkins  strewn; 
Young  pines  swaying,  to  start  their  tendrils  soon. 
Mild  Western  Gale — resounding  many  days; 
Warm  Chinook — blossoming  the  mountain  ways. 

SWEET  IS  THE  SMOKE  OF  THE  ASPEN  WOOD 

SWEET  is  the  smoke  of  the  aspen  wood 
Blown  from  the  dwellings  of  solitude; 
From  chimneys  of  settler,  rising  blue, 
Column  of  cheer  thru  the  fireplace  flue. 

Sweet  is  the  smoke  of  the  aspen  wood 
Feeding  the  fire  of  the  camping  brood; 

Fuel  ambrosial — spicy  scent; 

Smoke — of  the  wilderness  redolent. 

Sweet  is  the  smoke  of  the  aspen  wood 
Inviting  the  soul  to  dreamy  mood; 

Myrrh  and  balm  fragrant  of  mountainland — 
Honeyed  incense  of  the  burning  brand. 

THE  CHIPMUNK 

rT"iHE  Chipmunk,  striped  sprite,  impish  squirrel; 
I    Gay,  happy,  satisfied — in  easy  curl 

Its  tail,  then  wild  erect — alarm'd  aspect — 
Lightning  speed  to  where  logs  or  stones  project. 
Furry  mite,  born  the  dog  and  cat  to  tease; 
Helpless,  canine  and  feline,  search  the  trees, 
Eager  to  catch  the  quick  tormenting  thing 
Whose  squeak,  ventriloquial  sounding, 
Seems  actual  within  their  very  claws; 
Until,  a  rod  away,  it  light  haw-haws. 
Dandelion,  rose  pods,  kinnikinick, 
Raspberries,  it  eats  or  stores  in  its  rick. 

83 


Harvester  of  grasses,  herbs,  roots  and  seeds; 
Stored  in  its  labyrinth  for  winter  needs. 
Most  animate  of  all  the  furry  kind, 
Early  summer  'till  winter  its  snows  wind, 
Then  beneath  the  ground  it  snug  hides  away; 
The  Chipmunk,  'till  first  flowers  come  in  May. 

WHITE  TIDES  OF  THE  LOW 

SOFTLY  and  slow,  the  White  Tides  of  the  Low, 
Come  surging  up  the  shore. 
Up  the  canons  deep  they  silent  creep, 
Void  of  the  Ocean's  roar. 
When  the  Gorge  is  full,  the  White  Tides  mount, 

Up  the  foothills  more  and  more; 
They  tremble  and  writhe,  and  eddying  wide, 
Submerge  those  summits  hoar. 

White  Tides  of  the  Low, 

The  mountains  o'er  flow — 

Milk-white  waves  of  the  Mist  Ocean's  flood; 

Stormy  Sky  is  thy  home — 

Born,  like  Venus,  from  foam — 
White  Tides  of  the  billowy  Scud. 

Into  the  Vale,  the  White  Tides  of  the  Low, 

Sweep  ghostly  up  the  steeps; 
They  make  it  a  Bay  and  misty  way 

Of  white  aerial  Deeps. 


84 


They  lap  the  shor'd  crags,  the  ledges  they  lave, 
As  upward  their  streaming  creeps; 

They  glisten  and  glean  in  lunar  sheen 
As  o'er  them  the  bright  Moon  peeps. 

White  Tides  of  the  Low, 

The  mountains  o'er  flow — 

Milk-white  waves  of  the  Mist  Ocean's  flood; 

Stormy  Sky  is  thy  home — 

Born,  like  Venus,  from  foam — 
White  Tides  of  the  billowy  Scud. 

Over  the  Peaks,  the  White  Tides  of  the  Low, 

At  last  their  white  surges  swell, 
Bringing  pillows  of  fast  falling  snow 

To  deepen  the  winter's  spell. 
Now  sounds  the  Wind  with  bellowing  roar, 

The  flight  of  the  Low  to  compel; 
It  soon  beats  the  air,  the  peaks,  the  Vale, 

White  Tides  of  the  Low,  fly— pell-mell. 

Low  pressure  areas  of  air,  entering  the  mountains  from  the  Great 
Plains,  or  "lows,"  as  the  mountaineers  term  them,  are  an  important 
factor  in  the  meteorological  or  weather  phenomena  of  the  obcrland. 

Developing  in  the  low  country  or  Great  Plains  region  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountains,  at  altitudes  of  5,000  feet  and  upwards,  they 
drift  up  the  canons  and  gorges  in  great  waves  and  surges  of  white 
mist,  and  gradually  envelop  the  mountains  and  peaks,  just  as  the 
tides  of  the  ocean  sweep  up  the  shore,  with  a  constantly  changing 
shore-line  of  cape,  bay,  fjord,  inlet,  and  even  islands,  when  the 
mountains  are  wholly  submerged  except  their  summits. 

Usually,  according  to  season,  a  low  brings  rain  or  snow,  but  often 
it  is  only  mist.  In  the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  these  lows  can  be  seen  devel 
oping  on  the  Plains  at  a  distance  of  50  miles  away,  and  thus  the 
whole  progress  of  the  phenomenon  can  be  observed  until  the  Vale  itself 
is  completely  enveloped. 

Often,  in  winter,  their  first  surges  carry  a  fine  frost,  and  when 
they  retreat  or  are  dissipated  into  the  region  of  upper  air,  one  can 
distinguish  the  altitude  they  attained  by  the  frost  deposited  on  the 
trees  on  the  mountain  side  at  that  point.  Occasionally,  for  as  much 
as  48  hours,  a  strong  wind  from  the  west  holds  a  low  at  bay,  either 
on  the  heads  of  the  Twin  Sisters  or  under  the  lower  summits  of  the 
foothills;  and  almost  invariably  in  winter,  it  is  the  wind  that  eventu 
ally  drives  the  lows  back  to  the  Plains  where  they  finally  disperse. 

In  winter  these  lows  sometimes  bring  the  mercury  down  as  many 
as  70  degrees;  from  50  above  zero  to  more  than  20  below  zero,  an 
almost  terrifying  contrast,  meaning  exposure,  suffering,  and  distress 
to  the  mountaineer  and  his  live  stock. 

85 


THE  EAGLE 

NEATH  the  rainbow's  arch  in  the  golden  sun 
Wings  the  Eagle  calm  where  the  storm  has  run; 
'Mong  the  crags  where  the  Lightnings  dashed 

their  fire, 

Mounting  those  crests  where  fell  the  Thunder's  ire. 
Above,  and  yet  on — on,  on,  to  the  clouds, 
Invading  the  spaces  ruled  by  the  gods; 
Then,  spurning  those  regions — swift  to  its  peak, 
The  Monarch  of  fowl  kind  with  peering  beak, 
Sweeps  terrible  beam  of  death-dealing  eye 
For  lambkin,  grouse,  rabbit,  and  other  prey, 
Which  from  safe  covert  might  foolishly  stray; 
When,  falling  like  arrow-shaft  from  the  sky, 
With  swiftness  of  flight  that  empties  the  breath — 
Talons  of  steel  gripping  flesh  to  its  death; 
Causing  fear  awful — life  passes  in  swoon — 
Victim  collapsing,  to  look  that  face  on. 
'Tis  mercy  the  prey  can  die  thus  so  soon, 
Death — talons  and  terror  combined,  give  boon. 
Then  to  the  aery,  a  cliff  'mong  the  stones; 
The  stripping  of  flesh,  the  dropping  of  bones. 
The  Eagle,  proud  Monarch  of  boundless  Sky; 
Wing'd  death  the  price  paid  for  his  glory  high. 
Yet,  'tis  the  price,  when  we  monarchs  install; 
A  Throne,  monster  is,  which  preys  on  us  all. 

CLOUD  STREAM  ON  LONGS  PEAK 

The  cloud  stream  on  Longs  Peak  is  a  spectacle  so  sublimated, 
so  distantly  removed  from  things  terrestrial,  that  to  observe  this 
tremendous  river  of  misty  cloud  surging  over  the  huge  mountain;  to 
hear  its  sustained,  at  times,  almost  deafening  roar,  and  yet  to  learn 
of  its  having  no  visible  effect,  at  least  in  the  lower  regions  of  air,  is 
to  stand  in  awe,  silent,  and  contemplating  a  phenomenon  unspeak 
ably  impressive. 

A10NG  the  scenes  imposing,  vast,  sublime, 
Seen  when  Boreas  rules  in  winter  time, 
Is  the  flow,  radiant,  supernal,  grand, 
Of  mighty  Cloud  Stream  o'er  the  Oberland. 
Continent  river  traversing  mid-air — 
Congo  of  cloud  draining  altitudes  rare; 

86 


Streaming  from  northwest  o'er  the  topmost  Range 
Down  to  the  gorges  of  the  three  St.  Vrains. 
Wild  torrent,  swift  flowing,  dazzling  white, 
Gliding  swan-like  o'er  Longs  stupendous  height; 
Descending,  tumultuous,  snowy  slopes, 
Till  lost,  where  the  gorge  its  deep  abyss  ope's. 

Silvery,  fleecy  phosphorescent,  at  night, 
Under  the  soft  lume  of  the  white  moonlight, 
It  flows  in  unbroken  waves  o'er  the  steep 
Pouring  its  pale  flood  into  the  chasm'd  deep. 
When  Morn,  in  the  dim  hours,  fires  red  the  East, 
Its  misty  swells  sweep  ruddy  o'er  the  crest 
And  wash  in  golden  rose-tipped  loveliness 
'Gainst  a  bank  of  sky  that  gleams  its  bluest. 
When  its  current  shores  the  setting  sun — 
Cloud  river — aerial  Amazon — 
Tis  then,  its  bounding  crests  flow  flaming  fire, 
Dying  to  ashen  hue  'bove  the  burnt  out  pyre; 
Then  iridescent  in  the  afterglow — 
Pale  lavender  at  dusk,  its  billows  flow. 

Oh!    Eunoe!     Paradisal  river  bright! 
Which  doth  absolve — regenerate  from  Night! 
Art  thou  more  fair  than  this  stream  of  Cloud — 
More  wonderful  to  raise  the  soul  to  God? 
Oh!     Nature!     Deeply  inspirational! 
Lifting  man  to  beauteous  realms  of  Soul, 
I  praise  thine  open  beauties,  seen  by  all; 
Yet  which  a  meaning  hold,  symbolical, 
Of  God's  greater  glories  spiritual, 
To  him  who  has  vision  celestial. 


BIGHORN 

BIGHORN!    How  nobly  this  sentinel  ram 
Contemplates  the  landscape,  countenance  calm, 
Comprehensive,  ages  trained — Wisdom-wise 
To  ev'ry  lure  which  subtile  foes  devise. 
Oberland  boasts  no  animal  grander 
Than  this  sheep-form'd  alpine  dwelling  centaur; 
Venerable  Chiron — faithful  Pholus — 
Here  your  ancient  race  is  still  among  us. 

87 


By  slight  imagination,  of'old  Gods, 
Seeing  him  on  the  crest  among  the  clouds 
As  the  air  drives,  mist-white,  from  either  sea, 
Pacific's  green  waves — Atlantic's  dread  lea — 
Here,  on  the  high  Pass,  Continent's  divide, 
Where  gath'ring  vapors,  salt-lade,  of  the  tide, 
Form  the  whirlwinds  of  the  Storm,  soon  to  glide 
Down  the  steep  and  sweep  the  rang'd  mountains  wide- 
The  Bighorn!     Sentinel  Centaur  of  the  Crest! 
Monarch  of  the  wildest  gorges  of  the  West — 
Born  'mong  clouds  and  dizzy  precipice. 
Its  home,  wild  abysses  of  cavern'd  cliffs, 
Nephele's  son,  flesh-sired  of  Ixion; 
On  beetling  crag-heads  greeting  either  sun, 
The  one  which  lifts  o'er  East  the  maiden  Day 
Or  'mid  the  Western  ocean  snuffs  its  ray. 


Great  Ram,  your  most  feared  foe,  save  grizzled  age — 
Of  Flesh,  none  exempted,  Life's  heritage — 
Is  the  frost  congealed  texture  of  this  cloud — 
So  oft  in  these  high  lands  a  death-hid  shroud — 
Your  woe — cov'ring  your  feed,  driving  you  below, 
Beautiful  falling — Winter's  first  virgin  Snow. 
Hunger  driving  you  from  off  the  Great  Divide 
Down  'mong  fierce  foes,  thru  the  forest  belt  wide; 
Down  to  the  open  pastures  of  the  Park, 
Where  Death,  often  violent,  meets  you,  stark; 
Cougar,  rifle,  skulking  wolves  that  ravage — 
Who  await  your  weakening  from  old  age: 
Sneaking,  aloof— driven  off  by  your  band; 
Who  with  filial  devotion  by  you  stand; 
Till,  scenting  dangers  threatening  whole  flock, 
They  leave  you,  alone,  to  meet  the  fatal  shock. 
But,  oh!  how  rich  you  are,  waiting  thus — Death; 
For  wisdom  you  have  imparted — its  full  breadth, 
To  fittest  members  of  your  devoted  band; 
Which  ages  hence,  faithful,  shall  dwell  this  land. 
The  Bighorn!     Sentinel  Centaur  of  the  Crest! 
Great  Ram!     Whose  spreading  horns  glorious  invest 
The  uppermost  Teachings  of  the  mountain  West. 
You!    Loved  creature,  ancient  sacrifice  noblest — 
Wild  ram,  holy,  slain  in  Moriah  blest; 
Symbol  divine!     You,  Abraham's  faith  suggest. 

DAWN  AT  CHASM  LAKE 

YET  streams  her  silver  flood — the  beaming  Moon, 
Into  the  fell  Abyss  in  ghostly  swoon. 
The  vasty  Corridor  in  murky  gloom 
Broods  where  the  cliff-rent  Shadows  dusky  groom. 
Atop  the  Peak,  the  mottled  Disc  doth  climb, 
Blanching  Utah  with  lunar  beams,  light  lime. 
Beneath,  the  Lake,  sheet  of  mirroring  glass, 
Sleeps  the  brimm'd  deeps  of  its  aquiform  mass. 
What  glare  is  this  which  spreads  its  golden  loom 
On  that  high  Summit  crested  by  the  Moon; 
A  gleam,  now  gilding,  as  with  flaming  Noon 
The  Peak,  tinging  its  cliffs  with  rosy  bloom? 
It  is  the  Sun,  tracking  Luna  the  night, 
At  last  greets  her  on  that  majestic  Height. 

89 


As  tho  to  shun  the  embrace  of  his  plan 

She  grays  her  face  with  ashes  coldly  wan; 

Yet  brilliant  o'er  the  West,  as  she  flees  the  Day, 

She  lights  the  Bays  of  California; 

Where,  as  the  golden  god  speeds  'top  the  Range 

Once  more  her  beamy  smiles  to  sweet  exchange, 

She  flies  far  distant  'bove  that  flow'ry  lea 

To  plunge,  ere  he  takes  her,  in  the  Western  sea. 

With   Day    summoned    bright    to    that    sun-crowned 

Height, 

Low  at  its  feet,  the  Lake,  still  sleeps  in  Night. 
As  upper  gorge  rims  now  dim  catch  the  light, 
The  Waters  of  the  Chasm,  slumb'ring,  moon-white, 
In  sudden  momentary  darkness  cast 
By  Luna's  beam  intercepted  on  the  Crest, 
Reflect  the  stars  a  moment  on  their  breast — 
Lustrous  gleaming,  those  planets  orbing  vast: 
Then,  the  great  Vault,  its  dim  cathedral  shade, 
By  Dawn's  acolytes,  crimson  candle  lade, 
Is  lit — till  nave  and  transept  in  red  rose 
Soft  'lume  the  shadows  of  the  cloister  rows. 
Now  Avalanche — fearful  thru  Abyss  roars; 
Cliffs,  frost-split,  sun-loosed,  plunge  down  to  Chasm 

floors. 

A  lone  eagle  wings  the  Void  above  the  Lake 
As  downward  to  its  wave  Light's  gleamings  take. 
'Tis  here — Dawn's  blush-smoked  torches  lighting  way, 
The  World  enveloped  bright  with  lovely  Day! 
The  Doors  of  East  burst  open  with  the  Sun 
That  o'er  the  West  his  chariot  may  run. 


Spring  in  the  oberland  almost  invariably  comes  in  with  a  gush  or 
wave  of  warm  air  from  the  Great  Plains,  usually  occurring  from  the 
middle  to  the  last  of  March,  and  during  a  lull  of  the  gale  from  the 
west  and  northwest,  that  prevails  incessantly  on  the  Great  Divide 
at  this  period  of  the  year.  Taking  advantage  of  this  lull,  the  warm 
air  from  the  Plains  rushes  in,  up  the  gulches  and  canons,  like  a  tidal 
wave,  and  upon  its  warm  surges  come  thousands  of  the  native  birds 
and  the  myriad  migrants  of  the  far  north,  flying  helter-skelter, 
exultant  and  chattering,  and  settling  occasionally  in  the  meadows 
and  thickets  to  feed  on  the  flies  and  snow-fleas  to  which  the  sun 
gives  birth  from  the  thawing  snow  and  ground. 

This  particular  day  is  undoubtedly  the  greatest  day  of  the  moun 
tain  year — no  other  is  so  distinctly  marked  with  extremes  of  tempera- 

90 


tuie,  from  stern  winter  to  melting  spring,  or  so  affecting  to  life  in 
general,  softening  the  frozen  solitudes  to  warming  smiles.  The 
transitions  from  spring  to  summer,  summer  to  fall,  fall  to  winter,  are 
much  more  gradual — but  with  the  simultaneous  coming  of  the  birds, 
the  sudden  thaw  of  the  ice  and  snow,  and  the  warm  balmy  waves  of 
air  gushing  in  fragrant  exuberance  from  the  Plains,  it  is  the  one  day 
of  rejoicing  to  the  winter-bound  mountaineer  and  the  wild  herds 
and  life  of  the  oberland. 

After  this  event,  within  a  day  or  so,  often  within  a  few  hours, 
even  to  the  hour,  in  memorable  instances,  the  gale  from  the  west 
resumes  its  vigor,  clouds  veil  the  sun,  the  air  chills,  storms  gather, 
blizzards  rage,  and  Spring,  for  a  period  of  fully  sixty  days  thereafter, 
slowly  advances  and  retreats  until  the  sun  finally  asserts  a  power 
that  establishes  the  indisputable  sovereignty  of  Summer. 

In  the  breaking  up  of  particularly  deep-snowed  winters,  long  be 
fore  the  roads  are  freed  from  ice  and  snow,  flocks  of  blue-birds,  in 
the  ecstatic  Gush  0'  Spring,  can  be  observed  in  close  proximity  to 
bevys  of  pure  white  ptarmigan  which  have  been  driven  from  their 
haunts  above  timberline  by  the  deep  snow  covering  their  feeding 
grounds,  low  matted  areas  of  arctic  willow  and  birch. 

Hawks  visit  the  oberland  less  frequently  in  mid-winter,  leaving  the 
smaller  game  and  winter  birds  more  to  the  owl,  coyote,  fox,  wolf, 
bobcat,  and  weasel.  Often  the  first  arriving  birds  battle  bravely  with 
the  belated  blasts  of  winter,  retiring  to  and  feeding  on  the  Plains  or 
low  foothill  country,  and  returning  to  their  mountain  homes  daily 
jifst  before  dusk,  when  they  settle  noisy  and  gossiping  in  their 
favorite  copse  and  thicket  to  spend  the  night. 


GUSH  0'  SPRING 

GUSH  0'  SPRING  from  the  Plains,  fleeting  thing; 
Sweet,  tho  short,  its  fluttering  reign. 
When  the  blackbird  wings  to  the  frozen  swamp 
Piping  his  lay  to  the  death- white  lake; 
From  a  willow  twig,  sweet  his  reedy  song 

Liquid  sounds  where  the  deep  drifts  are  lain; 
And  the  wondering  trees  and  meadows  thrill — 
At  the  glad  voice  of  Spring  they  awake. 

The  bluebirds  awing  in  the  golden  sun 

Drop  'mid  the  blanching  drifts  in  greed; 
On  snow-flea  and  gnat,  infesting  the  flat, 

Brought  to  life  by  the  sun  for  their  feed. 
Their  journey  was  far  and  hunger  most  keen 

Prompts  them  to  hurried  meal  in  glee; 
For  sudden  change  of  air,  cold,  menacing, 

Back  to  the  Plains  they  quickly  must  flee. 

91 


Hawks  follow  the  birds,  their  accustomed  prey, 

They  soar  and  oft  dart  in  their  flight, 
On  rabbit  and  squirrel,  careless  of  late, 

Save  to  footed  animals  in  sight. 
Wilson  snipe,  with  staccatic  wing-flutter, 

Skip  thawing  ice  'long  the  shore. 
Robins  and  warblers,  their  various  notes, 

Echo  sweetly  the  woodlands  o'er. 

Gush  0'  Spring!     Glad  birds  twittering 
On  the  balmy  waves  of  air. 

From  distant  Plains  where  Summer  reigns 
Come  zephyrs  warm  and  fair; 
To  the  Mountain  land 

Where  the  snows  deep  stand — 

Where  Winter  drives  his  caravan; 
Where  bright  bluebird's  wing, 
In  the  Gush  0'  Spring, 

Gay  greets  the  white  plumed  ptarmigan! 
No  promise  of  flowers  to  cheer  the  birds 

Save  catkins  and  nestling  pasque, 
Slowly  swelling  their  buds  in  the  mounting  sun, 

Doubtful — hardly  daring  to  ask. 
The  thaw  'mong  the  pines  wintry  tales  unfold; 

Shells  of  pine  cones,  squirrel's  dispose; 
Tufts  of  rabbit's  shed  fur  and  wind  blown  seed, 

Dust  and  grime,  the  thawed  snows  disclose. 
Meanwhile,  up  aloft,  cloud  legions  enrank, 

To  battle  the  sweet  Gush  0'  Spring. 
White  mists  and  fine  rains,  snows,  gray  leaded  hail, 

For  their  ordnance  and  guns  they  bring. 
Soon  blasts  of  assault  on  the  heights  are  heard — 

With  thunder  they  sound  the  alarm; 
Exulting  birds  wildly  start — plainward  they  fly — 

Again  to  feed  on  field  and  farm. 
Soon  a  peak  is  stormed — by  massed  clouds  attacked — 

Charging  tempestuous  and  cold; 
But  another  height  thrusts  helm  thru  the  mist, 

He  has  slain  his  enemy  bold. 
Then  another  is  steeped  in  low'ring  cloud, 

Noble  outlines  viewed  on  its  form, 
By  white  sleet  splashed  in  his  gulches  dark — 

His  crags  in  relief  'gainst  the  storm. 

92 


With  promise  most  bright  from  a  sun-beaming  height 

The  birds  courage  take  and  return; 
On  mount  and  peak,  where  the  sun  claims  the  fight, 

Rainbow  and  light  triumphant  burn. 
For  hours  the  conflict  in  doubt  often  hangs, 

'Till  loud  peals  a  mightier  sound — 
'Tis  wild  Winter's  dread  blast,  reserved,  in  leash, 

Gush  0'  Spring  with  snow  to  confound. 
Then  wild  cry  the  birds,  wings  spread  to  the  breeze, 

A  last  blaze  of  light  in  the  West; 
When  Sun,  now  o'erwhelmed,  recalls  his  bright  arms 

And  Winter  enswoons  his  gold  crest. 
With  pitiless  whirls  the  snow  sweeps  the  Vale — 

Thawed  waters  to  ice  recongeal; 
Sweet  Gush  0'  Spring  swift  retreats  to  the  Plains — 

Fairer  skies  its  charms  to  reveal. 
But  one  intrepid  wing,  the  piping  blackbird, 

By  lake  and  swamp  on  his  willow  twig; 
Sits  enveloped  the  night  as  the  snows  so  white 

Stiffen  with  frost  his  clutched  sprig. 
In  Morn's  icy  dawn  he  calls  for  light  warm — 

Most  plaintive  he  pipes  to  the  sun; 
But  only  drear  snows  return  with  their  blows; 

Wailing,  he  flies  plainward,  undone. 
Tho  the  blackbird  fled  o'er  the  death-white  lake— 

Tho  Spring  chilled  in  the  wintry  blast; 
Tho  snows  and  fierce  blows  regained  the  heights — 

Blizzards  and  storms  the  Vale  o'ercast; 
Yet  Hope  springs  up  in  the  mountaineer's  breast 

As  he  stands  again  in  wintry  sleet; 
The  flocks  and  herds,  the  fast  flying  birds, 

Know  Spring  again  they'll  soon  joyous  greet. 

Gush  0'  Spring!     Glad  birds  twittering 
On  the  balmy  waves  of  air. 

From  distant  Plains  where  Summer  reigns 
Come  zephyrs  warm  and  fair; 
To  the  Mountain  land 

Where  the  snows  deep  stand — 
Where  Winter  drives  his  caravan; 

Where  bright  bluebird's  wing, 
In  the  Gush  0'  Spring, 
Gay  greets  the  white  plumed  ptarmigan! 

93 


THE  DREAD  VISITOR  AND  HIS  BAND 


r  T^HE  snows  of  long  winter  are  melting, 

|        The  chinook  blows  warm  o'er  the  strand; 
The  yellow  buttercups  are  blooming 

In  the  swale  where  the  snow-pools  stand. 
But  I  sigh,  and  think  of  the  coming, 

Of  a  Visitor  and  his  Band; 
Of  the  march  of  the  World  and  Mammon 

As  they  enter  the  Mountain  Land. 

The  grass  on  the  hillside  is  greening, 

The  pine-boughs  toss  gay  'neath  the  sun; 
The  bright  banners  of  Spring  are  waving, 

Up- — up,  where  the  slopes  highest  run. 
But,  oh!    Another  banner  streaming — 

Of  the  Visitor  and  his  Band; 
Tis  the  flag  of  the  World  and  Mammon 

As  they  enter  the  Mountain  Land. 

The  bluebirds  are  mating  and  flying, 

'Round  the  eaves  by  the  cabin  door; 
The  aspen  and  willow  are  pluming — 

The  blackbird  calls  over  the  moor. 
But,  hark!    Another  voice  is  sounding — 

The  dread  Visitor  and  his  Band; 
'Tis  the  clang  of  the  World  and  Mammon 

As  they  enter  the  Mountain  Land. 


VEIL  0'  VALE 

OFT  in  the  Vale  when  the  Spring  meltings  come 
Of  the  Winter  snows,  and  the  waters  run, 
A  thin  veil  of  cloud  o'er  the  sun  is  flung 
As  tho  by  hand  of  a  designing  One. 

Thru  morning  hours  this  veil  suspended  hangs, 
Receiving  the  sun's  most  am'rous  pangs; 

Should  its  fierce  hot  rays  be  not  thus  withstood 

The  snows  would  sudden  run  and  cause  great  flood. 

94 


CRUEL  SHOCK!    UNCONQUERED  WINTER 
SWEEPS  COLD  AGAIN  THE  FLOW'RING  VALE 

CRUEL  shock!     Unconquered  Winter 
Sweeps  cold  again  the  flow'ring  Vale — 
Leafing  shrub  and  tender  flower 
Stretch  close  to  Earth  their  blossoms  frail! 

Dejected  bird — chilled  to  the  spine — 
Skulks  the  copse  in  shivering  repine; 
Disconsolate,  plumage  ruffs; 
Peeps  feebly  'neath  the  a.spen  fluffs. 
Stream  and  pool — froze  in  the  onset — 
Ice  their  breasts  with  frost  wove  blanket. 
Snow,  hail,  driv  by  howling  gale, 
Sleets  frigid  every  living  thing. 
Soft  catkins,  buds,  all  tree  kind, 
Freezing,  shrink  from  the  bitter  sting. 
In  one  hour,  the  dread  Boreal  brute 
Has  subdued  growing  verdure  mute; 
Outrageous  o'er  the  land  he  sweeps — 
Supreme,  once  more,  his  power  keeps. 

Cruel  shock!     Unconquered  Winter 
Sweeps  cold  again  the  flow'ring  Vale — 
Leafing  shrub  and  tender  flower 
Stretch  close  to  Earth  their  blossoms  frail! 

WALT   WHITMAN   WOULD   HAVE   ENJOYED 
THIS  DAY 

IN  the  Spring,  widening  road,  spruce  and  pine, 
Prone  felled  to  make  way  for  Traffic's  incline, 
Smell  balsamy  and  aromatic  keen — 
Inhalations  thru  lungs,  fresh  hygiene. 
The  steam  of  warm  earth,  as  we  ditched  the  side — 
Drying,  in  hot  sun,  o'er  the  Vale  beaming  wide. 
Our  bodies  perspiring  with  fleshy  scent — 
Sweat  exhaling  human  poisoned  content 
That  thru  the  long  winter  accumulate, 
Now  by  healthful  exercise  dissipate. 
The  clang  of  bar,  spade;  the  blasting  of  rock, 
Obstructions  removed  by  explosive's  shock. 

95 


The  lunch  by  the  brook  in  the  aspen's  shade — 

Smoke  of  our  pipes  curling  blue  thru  the  glade. 

Then,  after  lunch,  renewed  labor  and  toil, 

Again  the  sweat  in  the  sun's  burning  broil; 

Often  a  passing  cloud  or  squall  of  snow 

Congealing  moisture  on  laborer's  brow. 

Anon,  while  resting,  panting  hot  the  grime, 

A  glance  at  the  peaks,  snow-mantled,  sublime, 

Inspires,  refreshes  the  thinking  man; 

His  spirit  revives  and  he  leads  the  van. 

Then  the  walk  home  to  supper,  the  chores  done; 

Pipe  by  the  hearth,  gossip,'  innocent  fun. 

Then  outside,  skies  scanning,  stars  and  peaks  dim; 

Not  unconscious,  perhaps,  of  Night's  deep  Hymn. 

Once  more  within,  thoughts  by  the  hearth,  fire  banked, 

Verses  of  Bible  read — Diety  thanked; 

Feeling  fellowship  with  angels  and  men, 

Candle  blown  out — sweet  sleep  in  the  linen. 

Ah!     Walt  Whitman  would  have  enjoyed  this  day; 

With  mountaineers  living— their  simple  way. 

Here  the  Heart  of  the  Nation  pulsing  free — 

Here  the  Children  of  World  Democracy. 


ONCE  AGAIN  THE  SONG  OF  THE  STREAM 

ONCE  again  the  Song  of  the  Stream 
Sounds  sweet  in  the  echoing  Vale; 
Summoned  once  more  from  its  Winter's  dream 
To  resume  verdant  Summer's  tale. 


96 


Once  more  the  fall  of  bright  water 
Dolorous  tinkles  the  splashed  stones; 

Once  more  murm'ring  ripple,  soft  laughter, 
Where  gently  the  rivulet  drones. 

Dear  is  Thy  welcome,  bright  Water, 
Freed  again  from  the  ice  and  the  snow; 

No  longer  the  white  folds  of  Winter 
To  smother  the  song  of  Thy  flow. 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  PASQUE 

SWEET  Flora's  advent — the  clustering  pasque; 
The  first  of  the  flowers,  in  timid  bask, 
To  deck  the  glad  Easter  of  risen  Christ, 
E'en  in  altitudes  with  snow  and  frost  iced; 
Nestling  'mong  rocks,  clad  in  warm  silken  fluffs, 
Tossed  by  chinook  as  low  earthward  it  puffs. 
Anon  the  wind  'bates — a  burst  of  sun-glow — 
April  smiles  on  its  buds  thru  squalls  of  snow; 
Then,  as  bird  coaxes  nestlings,  their  wings  to  try, 
The  leaves  of  the  pasque  open,  peeping  shy. 
But  scarce  a  moment  they  dare  thus  the  day, 
For,  booming — gale  drives  cold  snow  'long  the  way. 
The  squall  hides  the  sun,  the  pasque  shuts  its  eyes, 
Night  sables  the  sails  of  the  stormy  skies. 

Winter  invades,  blizzards  sweep  o'er  the  land, 
Deep  buried  'neath  snow  lie  the  elfin  band. 
Boreas,  furious  with  windy  spleen 
Blows  snow  to  the  woods,  sun  pale  gleams  again. 
Next  day,  the  Vale  still,  skies  calm  and  quiet, 
After  wild  days  of  tempestous  riot, 
The  sun  in  warm  splendor,  unclouded,  bright, 
Beams  over  the  top  of  the  mountain  height — 
Full  on  the  buds,  drooping,  frayed,  winter-worn, 
Sad  wondering  why  they  ever  were  born; 
When  up  rise  their  stems  erect  to  the  sky, 
Joyous  buds  open  to  bloom  e'er  they  die. 

This  day,  warm  and  balmy,  brings  hope  of  May; 
The  bands  of  the  pasque  in  velvet  array 
Bloom  purpley  pink  with  gilt  centers  of  gold, 
Flowering  beauty  cov'ring  granites  old. 

97 


Oft  sanded  with  snow  and  pelted  by  hail — 
Chill  beat  with  rain  sheeting  cold  o'er  the  Vale; 
Then  cheered  by  the  sun — defying  the  blast — 
Rude  rocked  by  winds  on  them  gusty  down  cast; 
With  periods  of  Spring,  soft  whispering, 
Of  moons  and  stars  which  warm  night-dews  sweet  bring; 
Clinging  close  to  their  ledges,  shelt'ring  home, 
They  pray  for  sunny  days  of  May  to  come. 

Then  May  does  come — royal  Day  of  the  Pasque! 

No  fairer  day  could  maids  or  angels  ask. 

A  day  which  the  wood  gods  have  decked  with  greens, 

The  bare  rocks  entwined  with  verduring  screens; 

When  Cupid  clouds  dimple  their  golden  sheens — 

As  Nature  sets  one  of  her  fairest  scenes. 

A  day  that  smiles  'neath  a  Murillo  sky, 

Which  Earth,  enameled  with  bloom,  seems  to  vie; 

Blossoms,  blue  and  gold,  greeting  sky  and  sun. 

Amaranthine  day  of  rare  stuffs  spun 

As  Flora  weaves  robes  of  flowered  damask — 

When  all  the  hills  blossom  with  purple  pasque. 


SONG  OF  THE  WILD  FLOWER 


EARTH!    Earth! 
That  gave  me  birth, 
I  nestle  in  you  and  grow. 
You're  my  father,  dear, 
From  year  to  year. 
Earth!     Earth!     I  grow — I  grow! 

Sun!    Sun! 

My  golden  One, 

To  you  I  reach  and  nod. 

You're  my  lover,  true, 

I  worship  you. 
Sun!     Sun!     My  golden  god! 

Rain!     Rain! 

Thy  chilling  pain, 

Is  yet  my  virgin  bath. 

You're  my  cruel  one — 

You  hide  my  sun. 
Rain!    Rain!     I  fear  your  wrath! 

Night!    Night! 

You  veil  the  light, 

And  tender  make  my  form. 

You're  my  mother,  soft, 

Bright-eyed  aloft. 
Night!     Night!    Keep  off  the  storm! 

Dew!    Dew! 

You  fresh  renew, 

My  youth  when  beauties  fade. 

You're  my  little  miss — 

You  softly  kiss. 
Dew!    Dew!    My  dainty  maid! 

Wind!    Wind! 

You're  strong  and  kind, 

Your  touch  is  pure  and  sweet. 

You're  the  gossip,  Wind, 

Of  flower-kind. 
Wind!    Wind!    You're  fair  to  meet! 


99 


Snow!     Snow! 

You  chill  me  so, 

My  grave  now  yawns  below. 

Oh,  Sun!    My  bright  Sun! 

I'm  now  undone. 
Snow!     Snow!     You've  laid  me  low! 

MY  ALPINE  ROSE 


S  a  lovely  rose 
|       And  it  fragrant  grows, 

Sweet  perfuming  all  the  day. 
As  I  pass  the  steep 

Where  its  clusters  peep, 
I  sing  fond  to  it  this  lay. 

Alpine  rose,  with  your  lips  apart, 
And  your  blushes  dimpled  rare; 

Dear  alpine  rose,  my  wild  sweetheart, 
With  your  petals  pink  and  fair; 

Oh,  be  my  Love,  and  on  my  heart 
Your  red  blossoms  I  will  wear. 

Where  the  robins  sing 
As  they  mating  wing 

The  dell  where  the  torrent  flows; 
To  wild  eglantine 
On  its  thorny  vine 

I  sing  as  it  blooming  grows. 

Alpine  rose,  with  your  lips  apart, 
And  your  blushes  dimpled  rare; 

Dear  alpine  rose,  my  wild  sweetheart, 
With  your  petals  pink  and  fair; 

Oh,  be  my  Love,  and  on  my  heart 
Your  red  blossoms  I  will  wear. 

FAIRY  A'WING 

HOW  oft  the  stranger  in  the  Oberland, 
Hearing  a  humming-cutting  noise,  will  stand; 
Pause,  wonder  —  at  repeated  constant  sound, 
Its  cause  not  perceived  in  air,  tree,  nor  ground. 
Howe'er,  the  cause  is  nigh,  and  —  wonderful! 
Iridescent  form,  vibrant,  beautiful; 

100 


Aoes  tiniest  fowl — America's,  sole — 

Unplayed  in  other  lands,  its  diaph'nous  role. 

O'er  stream, 'mong  flowers,  shrubs,  and  blossomed  wood, 

Its  nigh  invisible  shape,  hunting  food, 

Keen  spats  the  air  and  shines  in  golden  sun; 

Affording  vision  rare,  a  fleeting  one, 

As  momentary  o'er  some  tempting  bud, 

Inserting  bill  in  dainty  attitude, 

It  hovers,  sucking  honeyed  nectar  sweet; 

Delicate  revelation,  exquisite; 

Fairy  A'Wing — the  broad-tailed  Humming-bird — 

So  seldom  seen,  its  form,  yet  often  heard. 

FILL  THE  VALE  WITH  GOLDEN  GLORY 

FILL  the  Vale  with  golden  glory, 
Orb'd  Sun,  with  your  flames  divine. 
Flush  the  snows  of  drifted  winter 
With  your  beams  of  bright  sunshine. 

Gold  on  the  Mountain! 

Rose  in  the  Sky! 

As  long  as  the  World  its  spaces  fly — 

Glories  of  Sunrise  will  never  die! 

Fill  the  Vale  with  golden  glory, 
Gild  the  green  pines  from  your  pyre. 
Drench  the  crags  of  every  mountain 
From  your  Bowl  of  Yellow  Fire. 

Gold  on  the  Mountain! 

Rose  in  the  Sky! 

As  long  as  the  World  its  spaces  fly — 

Glories  of  Sunrise  will  never  die! 

THE  MIDNIGHT  STORM 

TIKE  rude  carousal  of  rough  crowd  in  Town, 
I        Filling  alley  and  street  with  noisy  drown; 

Awaking  the  sleeper,  who  in  nightgown 
Closes  his  window  with  protest  and  frown — 
Crashing  and  thundering,  the  Midnight  Storm 
Whirls  from  the  Peak  in  tumultous  alarm. 
Twigs,  leaves,  and  sand,  lifted  by  hurricane, 

101 


Swish  rasping  'round  dwellings  like  threshing  grain. 
Wild  gusts  of  wind  roaring,  rattle  the  pane — 
The  shingled  roof  cracks  with  hammering  rain; 
Oft  a  scud  of  wet  snow  dashed  by  the  breeze, 
Whitely  plasters  buildings  and  trunks  of  trees. 
Then  comes  downpour — sheets  of  rainings  and  hail — 
Lightnings  and  thunders  envelop  the  Vale, 
Chilly  sudsings  blow  thru  windows  ajar; 
And  one,  sleepy,  rising  to  close  them — far, 
Tempest  has  flown  with  its  whirl,  flood,  and  fume; 
Stars  and  moon  gleam  as  remote  thunders  boom. 

WOODPECKERS 

IN  Spring,  when  snows  melt  and  the  ground  is  damp — 
In  Fall  when  the  woods  are  dry  in  the  swamp; 
With  note  of  high  glee  from  a  nearby  tree 
The  Woodpecker  calls  to  pioneer  free, 
And  springs  to  a  stump  or  half -rotted  log 
Where  settler  is  clearing  forest  and  bog, 
And  taps  and  raps  and  most  noisy  extracts 
Larva  and  grubs;  and  thus  gayly  attracts 
Attention  from  wielder  of  saw  and  axe — 
Admiration  warm  of  its  impish  acts, 
The  giant  woodpecker,  the  hairy  kind; 
And  tiny  woodpecker,  Batchelder's  find. 
These  two  species  winging  the  mountain  land, 
Red-headed,  white-breasted,  and  black  back  band. 
Animation  bright  they  lend  to  the  wilds, 
Fond  endeared  to  lovers  of  forest  aisles; 
Defenders  of  trees,  wings  swift  on  the  breeze, 
The  gay  woodpeckers,  beloved  natives. 

SURGES  OF  WILD 

WHEN,  walking  abroad,  reflecting  on  Life- 
Full  weary  of  cankering  Care  and  Strife; 
Emerging,  sudden,  on  some  upper  crag, 
Upon  it  the  hoof -prints  of  doe  and  stag — 
I  linger  on  that  quiet  height,  and  eye 
With  meditative  glance  the  west'ring  sky — 
There  comes  a  sweep  of  sweetest  coolness  blown 
From  that  region  where  low  the  sun  has  flown; 
Breezings — refreshing,  balmy,  fair  and  mild; 
From  wilderness  wafted — surges  of  wild. 


There  comes  a  sense  of  wandering:  a  call — 
To  search  where  things  all  new  created  crawl; 
When  World  first  lifted  crests  above  the  muck; 
When  Ararat  the  prow  of  Noah  struck, 
And  Man,  anew,  his  travels  o'er  the  Main 
Began — before  him,  deserted  Earth's  domain; 
Vast,  unpeopled  regions,  each  vista  seen, 
All  inviting,  beckoning,  bright  and  green; 
Breezes  from  them  blown,  balmy,  fair  and  mild; 
From  wilderness  wafted — surges  of  wild. 

Surges  of  Wild — 

Bringing  feelings  primitive — mind  exiled — 

Ancient  instincts,  when  Man  was  but  the  Child 

Of  primal  Nature,  his  knowledge  confined — 

His  intellect  but  in  bud,  not  refined; 

When  stars,  lightnings,  thunders,  clouds,  snow  and  rain — 

When  elements  became  the  gods  of  men: 

'Tis  no  disgrace,  I  trust,  these  Pagan  thrills 

That  creep  delicious  o'er  me  'mid  these  hills; 

This  dear  primeval  descent,  sweet  beguiled, 

When  on  the  heights  I  feel  these  surgings  wild! 

I  PRAYED  IN  THE  GOLDEN  NOON 

T  PRAYED  in  the  Golden  Noon— 
j^  In  the  glare  of  the  Midday  Sun. 

I  thrilled  in  the  Mystic  Swoon 
At  the  feet  of  the  Holy  One. 

There  in  the  orient  glade 

I  knelt  softly  and  yearning  prayed; 

For  I  felt  a  Presence  there 

Who  would  ken  my  adoring  pray'r. 

Oh!    Glorious  is  the  Sun, 
Tho  night  is  when  soft  raptures  come; 
But  Worship,  sacred  and  sweet, 
Is  where'er  we  Deity  meet. 

I  prayed  in  the  Golden  Noon — 
In  the  glare  of  the  Midday  Sun. 
I  thrilled  in  the  Mystic  Swoon 
At  the  feet  of  the  Holy  One. 

103 


The  Twin  Sister  peaks,  forming  the  eastern  rim  of  the  Vale  of 
Elkanah,  occupy  an  immense  space,  large  enough  to  contain,  along 
their  base,  four  distinct,  tho  closely  related  communities.  The 
Crags  region,  at  the  foot  of  the  North  Dome,  is  occupied  by  the 
homesteads  of  Charles  and  Gordon  Mace,  Walter  Jones,  Amanda 
Byrd,  Julian  Johnson,  and  others,  the  south  meadows  and  glades  of 
Estes  Park  reaching  to  the  very  base  of  the  mountain. 

In  the  Vale  itself,  the  great  mountain  presents  several  interesting 
features,  among  which  is  Raspberry  Butte,  on  the  upper  edge  of 
Albert  Bitner's  homestead;  Levings  Wood  and  Game  Pass;  Cabin 
Rock,  a  grand  eminence  commanding  a  magnificent  vista  of  the 
Vale  and  the  great  peaks  to  the  west  and  the  Mummy  to  the  north 
west.  This  rock  is  located  on  land  purchased  from  the  Government 
under  the  Timber  &  Stone  act,  by  Mrs.  John  Dickinson  Sherman,  and 
was  named  from  an  old  homestead  log  cabin  erected  in  the  vicinity 
by  Joe  Mills,  who  later  relinquished  the  homestead  to  Dr.  William 
Skinner  Cooper,  about  1909,  the  latter  acquiring  title  under  the 
Timber  &  Stone  act.  This  tract  occupies  a  beautiful  basin  now 
known  as  Cooper  Valley,  and  is  one  of  the  scenic  gems  of  the  region. 

To  the  south  and  east  of  Cooper  Valley  is  another  handsome ' 
heavily  wooded  hollow  in  the  mountain,  called  Bear  Canon;  still  an 
other  deep  indentation  further  east,  is  known  as  Big  Hole,  and  down 
the  tiny  stream  that  flows  out  of  it,  about  a  half  mile,  is  Little 
Hole;  these  names,  together  with  that  of  Cow  Creek,  the  main 
stream  of  the  Vale  and  which  washes  the  base  of  the  mountain  south 
of  Cabin  Rock  ridge,  are  relics  of  the  days  when  the  cattle  interests 
dominated  the  region,  the  principal  herds  being  owned  by  Harry 
Cole  and  Fred  Robinson. 

Under  the  South  Dome  is  an  attractively  sylvan  region  of  wood 
ed  glade  and  terrace  known  as  the  Promised  Land  and  which  com 
mands  a  sublime  view  of  the  skyline  south  and  east  of  Aliens  Park, 
the  southern  peak  heads  of  Wild  Basin,  and  the  entire  Longs  Peak 
group.  North  of  the  South  Dome,  the  region  lies  within  the  borders 
of  the  National  Park,  south  of  it,  in  the  Colorado  National  Forest, 
the  crest  of  the  great  mountain  between  the  North  and  South 
Domes  being  the  dividing  and  boundary  line  of  those  two  Govern 
ment  reservations.  The  ranches  of  William  Welch  and  Fred  Robin 
son  and  the  homesteads  of  Katherine  Garetson  and  John  Grant 
adjoin  this  region,  the  latter  tract  now  being  known  as  Steiner's 
Acres,  owned  by  Edward  A.  Steiner.  Along  the  foot  of  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  mountain,  lie  various  homesteads  and  ranches,  and  from 
this  side  the  mountain  so  dominates  the  view  as  to  completely  hide 
the  loftier  summits  of  Longs  Peak  and  the  Continental  range  until 
one  gets  well  out  towards  the  Plains. 

The  summit  of  the  mountain  is  crowned  by  two  perfect  peak 
heads,  with  a  graceful  saddle  between.  The  North  Peak  is  a  few  feet 
the  higher,  altitude  (1 1 ,436) ;  and  on  the  Cockscomb,  another  eleva 
tion  rising  from  the  mass  of  the  mountain  slightly  to  the  northwest, 
is  located  the  fire  "Lookout"  station  of  the  U.  S.  Forest  Service,  the 
ranger's  stone  shelter  hut  being  between  the  two  elevations,  where 
it  is  less  exposed  to  wind  and  storm.  This  station  commands  pano 
ramic  views  of  vast  distances  in  all  directions,  and  is  in  charge  of  a 

104 


trusty  observer  thruout  the  dry  season  when  the  forests  are  in  danger 
of  fire.  It  is  connected  by  a  horse  trail  with  the  Vale  below.and  by 
telephone  with  the  National  Forest  headquarters  in  Fort  Collins. 

On  the  crest  of  the  saddle  between  the  twin  peaks  is  an  in 
teresting  fortress-like  ledge  of  rocks  called  "Old  Jerus,"  which 
tradition  associates  with  Indian  lore  previous  to  1850.  To  the  east 
of  this  ledge,  extending  far  down  into  the  lower  forest  of  the  east 
slope,  is  formed  an  immense  snow-field  in  winter,  the  snow  being 
blown  thru  the  saddle  in  vast  quantities  from  the  west  and  deposited 
there,  forming  the  main  source  of  the  Little  Thompson  river:  this 
mountain  also  contributes  its  waters  to  two  other  streams,  the  Big 
Thompson,  and  the  North  St.  Vrain. 

Along  the  upper  ridges  of  the  southwestern  extensions  of  the 
mountain  are  bands  and  ledges  of  whitish  quartz,  which  are  often 
mistaken  by  visitors  for  trails  and  paths.  The  circumference  of  the 
Twins,  by  the  present  system  of  trails  and  roads,  1921,  is  about 
twenty  miles.  This  mountain,  with  its  many  square  miles  of  forest, 
meadow,  and  upland  pasture,  is  literally  a  vast  game  preserve, 
teeming  with  most  of  the  game  of  the  Rockies;  and  its  slopes,  sunny 
and  open,  and  free  of  the  great  snows  that  mantle  the  Main  Range, 
provide  an  all-the-year  home  for  it.  Beaver  and  fish  swarm  the 
streams  at  its  base,  bands  of  bighorn  and  deer  have  their  permanent 
home  upon  it,  and  its  hollows  and  ledges  form  an  immense  and 
attractive  aviary  for  bird  and  fowl.  It  is  almost  the  universal  senti 
ment  among  the  settlers,  that  the  attributes  of  this  beautifully 
wooded  and  verdured  mountain  are  softly  feminine  as  compared 
with  the  bald,  forbidding,  masculine  ruggedness  of  Longs. 


THE  WOMAN  MOUNTAIN 

HOW  like  some  great  Queen,  her  fair  dominions 
Spread  continent  'round  her  royal  cushions; 
A  vast  Maternity — with  subject  brood 
So  conscious  of  her  ample  Motherhood, 
That  each  life,  held  in  bonds  of  parent  love, 
Centering  in  glances  toward  her  brow  above, 
Rejoices  in  her  smiles — the  Sun's  bright  play — 
Seeking  her  crad'ling  breast  at  close  of  day. 
Thus,  the  Woman  Mountain,  enthroned  the  Vale, 
With  sylvan  charms  doth  dear  the  eye  regale. 

No  Maiden,  chaste,  with  swan-white,  dimpling  breasts, 
Could  more  pure  virgin  lie,  than  thy  pap'd  crests, 
All  empowdered  with  winter's  spotless  snow — 
Recumbent,  'gainst  the  sky,  in  sunset  glow. 
Whispering  chinook,  annunciative, 

105 


Steals  softly  warm  from  off  the  Western  Range; 
Cupid  clouds,  clust'ring,  as  winged  thoughts  votive, 
Suggest,  in  sighs^a  beaut'ous,  pregnant  change: 
At  last,  the  March  moon  dares  to  speak  the  thing — 
Its  kisses  stir  you  to  the  pains  of  Spring. 

There  comes  a  wondrous  Morning,  when  the  Sun, 
Beams  god-like  lustre  as  his  courses  run; 
Am'rous  glances  cast  on  the  maiden  Earth — 
All  her  children,  glad  summoned  to  the  Birth. 
Tis  then,  the  Virgin  Mountain,  aspened  green, 
With  flow'ring  bush  and  willow's  catkined  sheen, 
Throws  off  her  robes  of  Winter,  rusty  Fall, 
And  roseate  to  the  Sun,  stands  beautiful; 
Her  young  wife  charms  the  joy  of  every  eye — 
Her  tender  form  caressed  by  April's  sky. 

No  fair  June  Bride,  darling  Mountain,  ere  shone 
More  tempting  to  her  Groom  in  nuptial  bloom 
Than  thou;  nor  songs  raised  sweeter  to  the  Moon, 
Than  when  thine  owls  and  thrushes  in  the  gloom 
Of  Even,  with  thy  tinkling  rills  in  tune, 
Lift  their  voices  in  Vale's  emblossomed  room; 
While  overhead,  your  fond  attendant  gods 
Spread  blushes  of  last  sunset  on  the  clouds, 
As  envious  Day  consigns  you  to  Night's  bower, 
All  perfumed  'mong  your  beds  of  fern  and  flower. 

In  summer,  Mountain,  'mid  Noon's  dilection, 
The  Elements  spread  a  vast  affection 
All  about  the  regions  of  your  bright  throne; 
Rivaling — claiming  you  as  all  its  own — 
Each  noisy,  rattling,  careening  Tempest; 
Every  rainbowed,  golden  gleaming  Sunburst, 
All  seeking  fond  investment  of  your  walls — 
Loud  Thunders  roaring  'mong  your  vaulted  halls; 
The  rough  beardings  and  splashings  of  the  Storm, 
Softened  by  sunsets  pressing  warm  your  form. 


106 


In  September,  as  a  robust  Matron, 
Parent  Mountain;  among  your  tresses  brown, 
Sudden  gleaming  on  a  chilly  morning, 
Appear  white  frosts,  your  fair  crown  adorning. 
True  to  the  modes  of  mature  womanhood, 
You,  responsive  to  Autumn's  lang'rous  mood, 
Garb  your  ample  lines  with  foliage  bright — 
Aspen  fire,  scarlet,  gold — on  every  height. 
Your  leaf-hued  crags,  inviting  beamiest  light, 
That  Sun,  with  admiration,  can  indite. 

Now  come  the  periods  of  purple  haze — 
Hoar  October's  grape-purpled,  violet  days; 
When  cobwebs  all  entang'  the  red  Sun's  rays, 
And  upper  slopes  with  frost-fired  birches  blaze. 
Evening  then,  assumes  a  somber  gray — 
After  the  ling'ring  Sunset's  rubied  play 
Aloft  the  Parent  Mountain;  on  its  crest 
Day  extends  her  last  raptures  from  the  West; 
Then  fades,  the  dark'ning  sky,  to  Even's  calm, 
And  twilight  Zephyrs  hymn  the  vesper  psalm. 

Bleak,  from  where  flinty  sands  and  graveles  grind 
Atop  the  western  mountains  of  the  Vale, 
Fierce  driven  by  the  blear  November  wind — 
On  your  devoted  head,  dear  Peak,  the  gale 
In  awful  surges  plies  its  wintry  blows; 
You,  winding  yourself  in  fleeciest  snows: 
Ah!     Dearest  function — Woman  ever  knows 
Life's  stern  vicissitudes;  its  hapless  throes — 
And  soft  but  sure  resistance,  her  art  bestows; 
Oft  struck  herself,  she  eases  other's  woes. 

Our  Lady  Of  The  Snows,  in  winter  glows 
As  some  Great  Dame  colonial,  with  white, 
Snow-crowned  head  above  her  beauteous  brows; 
Glistens,  saintly  bright  in  the  full  moon's  light, 
Beaming,  gleam  for  gleam,  on  great  planets  far, 
Glances  argent — Herself,  a  shining  star. 
Gleam — Woman  Mountain!     Mother  of  the  Vale! 
Crests  forever  telling  the  Season's  Tale — 
Breasts  nourishing  the  wilderness  of  God's; 
Gleam  eternal  'mong  your  ambient  clouds! 

107 


Levings  Wood,  the  most  conspicuous  forest  cover  in  the  Elkanah 
Valley,  and  occupying  a  north  area  of  the  west  slope  of  the  Twin 
Sisters,  presents  a  glorious  plush  of  bright  forest  green,  forming  a 
magnificent  background  for  squalls  of  snow,  rain,  hail,  and  sleet, 
breaking  thru  Lambs  Notch  and  rolling  eastward  over  the  mountain. 

This  region,  burned  over  about  1865,  was  originally  covered  with 
a  noble  forest  of  spruce  and  fir  and  thus  killed,  and  later,  felled  by 
wind.  Since  then,  the  area  has  reseeded  itself  with  lodge-pole  pine  of 
characteristic  rapidity  of  growth,  now  exhibiting  a  mantle  of  beauti 
ful  texture,  symmetry,  and  evenness  of  height,  interspersed  with  deep 
flutings  of  aspen  where  the  watercourses  occur.  The  old  forest  still 
lies  prone  beneath,  a  vast  mine  of  seasoned  fuel. 

The  Government  trail  to  the  summit  of  the  Twins,  penetrates  and 
zigzags  thru  the  Wood,  passing  close  to  the  base  of  Raspberry  Butte, 
a  conspicuous  eminence  of  red  granite,  resembling,  both  in  color  and 
form,  a  gigantic  red  raspberry.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Levings 
acquired  most  of  the  Wood  from  the  Government  in  1909,  thru 
purchase  under  the  Timber  and  Stone  act. 

WHITE  BREAKS  THE  SQUALL 

WHITE  breaks  the  Squall  on  Levings  Wood 
Against  the  forest  green; 
Bright,  stabs — with  forked  interlude — 
The  lightning's  viper  beam; 
Deep  thunder,  from  that  altitude, 

Reverberates  the  scene; 
Gray  smokes  the  mist  in  low'ring  mood — 

Hail  rattles  in  gusty  spleen. 
A  burst  of  sun  with  fire  imbrued 
Reveals  the  rainbow's  gleam; 
The  trees,  a  wet  green  multitude, 

Stand  in  golden  rain — 
'Tis  o'er,  the  Squall  has  passed  in  flood, 
Blue  skies  smile  serene. 


WHERE  THE  IRIS  BLOOMS 

WHERE  the  Iris  stands  in  meadow 
Beside  the  droning  stream — 
Where  the  Mountain  stands  in  silver 
Beneath  the  bright  Moon's  beam — 
There,  Sweetheart,  I  will  meet  you, 

Where  the  gray  Owl  sweetly  tunes; 
There,  Sweetheart,  I  will  greet  you, 
Where  the  purple  Iris  blooms. 


108 


Where  the  high  Stars  glow  in  splendor — 

Where  the  dream  Clouds  kiss  the  Sky; 
Where  the  Aspens  droop  so  tender — 

Where  the  night  Winds  gently  sigh; 
There,  Sweetheart,  I  will  meet  you, 

Where  the  white  Mist  softly  swoons; 
There,  Sweetheart,  I  will  greet  you, 

Where  the  purple  Iris  blooms. 

When  the  rosy  Dawn  awakens — 

When  the  flowers  quaff  the  Dew; 
When  the  blackbird  pipes  its  greeting 

To  the  wading  marsh  curlew; 
There,  Sweetheart,  let  us  wander, 

By  the  shore  where  the  willow  plumes; 
There,  Sweetheart,  let  us  gather, 

Fragrant  mint,  where  the  Iris  blooms. 

One  of  the  most  wonderful  spectacles  of  the  middle  oberland,  is 
the  pollen  laden  wind  of  June,  distributing,  according  to  the  action 
of  the  wind,  vast  volumes  of  golden  pollen  from  off  the  lodge-pole 
pines.  This  phenomenon  is  so  pronounced  at  times,  that  visitors 
often  mistake  it  for  the  smoke  of  forest  fires,  until  informed  by  the 
mountaineer.  In  June,  when  the  pollen  is  ripe,  it  can  be  shaken 
from  the  boughs  of  the  lodge-poles  in  clouds;  and  often,  at  this 
season,  a  heavy  wind  preceeding  a  squall  of  rain  from  the  northwest, 
will  break  upon  the  Vale  with  vast  surges  of  golden  pollen  swept  from 
the  forest,  followed  by  the  gray  and  white  waves  of  rain  and  hail,  an 
interesting  and  beautiful  sight.  When  the  dry  chinook  prevails,  it 
sifts  quantities  of  pollen  on  the  surface  of  quiet  pools  and  the  beaver 
ponds,  where  it  lies  light  and  powdery,  and  often  the  pedestrian's 
garments  are  heavily  sprinkled  with  it.  There  are  times  also,  when 
the  wind  whirls  and  eddies  so  marvelously,  sprinkling  the  life- 
fertilizing  medium  into  every  part  of  the  forest  without  exception, 
that  it  suggests  the  agency  of  a  great  hand  wielding  a  giant  shaker. 

THE  POLLEN  WIND 

rE  Pollen  Wind!     The  Golden  Wind 
Of  gusty  June! 
Lade  with  fertilizing  breath 
Of  wondrous  Groom. 
Sprinkling  all  the  piney  mothers 

With  potent  boon — 
Renewing  all  the  virgin  woods 
With  leafy  bloom. 

109 


Hymened  spectacle!     Wondrous  golden  breeze 

Bringing  very  life  itself  to  maiden  trees. 

Cloud,  containing  pollen  for  vestal  pines, 

Shaken  o'er  them  as  the  Carrier  divines. 

How,  from  the  rainy  West,  the  haily  Squall, 

Preceeded  by  rough  gustings  Boreal, 

Strips  the  wide  forest  of  its  pollened  top, 

And  sweeps  into  the  Vale  a  golden  crop 

That  seems,  until  the  practiced  eye  discerns, 

The  yellow  smoke  of  distant  forest  burns. 

Surge  on  surge,  the  mellow  dust  storm  flows  on — - 

Each  successive  pine  crest  yields  its  pollen, 

Till  the  whole,  before  the  snow  Squall's  white  sleet, 

Deposits  in  the  Vale  its  golden  sheet. 

The  Pollen  Wind!    The  Golden  Wind 

Of  gusty  June! 
Lade  with  fertilizing  breath 

Of  wondrous  Groom. 
Sprinkling  all  the  piney  mothers 

With  potent  boon — 
Renewing  all  the  virgin  woods 
With  leafy  bloom. 


THE  SOLITAIRE 

ONCE,  roaming  aimless,  certain  mountain  wilds; 
Yet,  perhaps,  not  aimless,  but  subtly  led, 
I  chanced  upon  a  vale  so  sylvan  rare, 
It  seemed  to  me  that  here  an  Eden  spread. 
Not  intruding,  but  raptured,  from  the  edge, 
I  long  did  view  the  virgin  dale,  then  said: 
"So  fair  a  spot  as  this,  I  wish, 
Might  know  an  angel's  melody; 
For  none  so  pure  of  Heaven's  throng 
But  here  could  worship  Deity." 

'Twas  then,  a  bird — thrush,  warbling  Solitaire, 

As  thru  the  covert  beamed  a  golden  ray 

Of  Sun,  shot  thru  the  shining  breast  of  Noon, 

110 


Upraised  a  song  of  such  ecstatic  lay, 
That,  mindful  of  Celestial  sanctity, 
I  said,  as  I  withdrew  upon  my  way; 
"So  fair  a  spot  as  this,  I  know, 
Has  heard  an  angel's  melody; 
For  none  so  pure  of  Heaven's  throng 
.  Could  sweeter  sing  to  Deity." 


IF  WORSHIP  IS  THE  SABBATH 

IF  worship  is  the  Sabbath, 
And  we  bow  to  God's  command, 
Then  every  day  is  Sunday 
In  the  Rocky  Mountain  land. 

The  River  with  its  flood  from  snow 
Descends  the  mountain  heights; 

Its  symbol  is  that  living  flood 
Of  Beulah's  pure  delights. 

The  flowers  fair  that  deck  the  sward 

And  brightly  greet  the  sky, 
Suggest  to  souls  those  virtues  sweet, 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 

The  pines  so  tall  and  ever  green 
That  clothe  the  crags  most  free, 

Inspire  the  heart  with  Freedom's  song 
And  precious  Liberty. 

The  peaks  themselves,  stupendous,  grand, 

Affirm  the  Master's  plan — 
Where  rests  the  eye,  the  soul,  the  heart, 

There  rests  the  God  of  Man. 

If  worship  is  the  Sabbath, 
And  we  bow  to  God's  command, 
Then  every  day  is  Sunday 
In  the  Rocky  Mountain  land. 


Ill 


A  lunar  rainbow  shining  like  a  white  spirit  against  a  background 
of  dark  forest  in  the  vast  bosom  of  the  Twin  Sisters,  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  and  most  ethereal  spectacles  exhibited  on  the  slopes  of  that 
noble  mountain. 

The  phenomenon  is  the  coincidence  of  a  rain  storm  at  night  on 
that  side  of  the  Vale  with  a  full  or  partial  moon  shining  on  it  from 
clear  sky  on  the  opposite  side. 


THE  BOW  OF  LUNA 

IN  dead  of  night  on  that  far  reared  height 
When  the  full  moon  beams  from  the  west; 
When  the  thunder-storm,  the  Sisters'  heads 
With  beating  wind-blown  rain  invest; 
I  look  for  the  Bow  of  Luna  then — 

That  arch  of  spray  in  silver  drest — 
The  rainbow's  arch,  sheened  bright  of  the  moon 
In  the  depths  of  the  mountain's  breast. 

No  maiden  so  fair  in  bridal  gown 

Ever  wore  such  a  bow  of  white; 
It  glints  and  gleams  like  an  angel's  wing 

In  the  flash  of  a  star  most  bright. 
If  sun  rainbow  is  a  sign  of  no  Flood, 

Streaming  colors  of  gorgeous  glow, 
What's  a  moon  rainbow — splendor  of  white — 

What's  the  sign  of  bright  Luna's  Bow? 


112 


THE  FAR-AWAY  MOUNTAINS 

HP'HE  Far-Away  Mountains  are  the  fairest  to  me 
JL       For  they  border  the  Valley  of  Dreams; 

They  mingle  their  heads  with  regions  of  Sky — 
Glitter  roseate  'neath  sunset  beams; 

Then  deepen  to  purple  in  evening  shade 
As  above  them  a  bright  planet  gleams. 

No  view  is  so  fair  as  a  far  off  Thought — 

A  Fancy  so  rare  that  it  really  seems', 
Wafting  One  off  the  bleak  shores  of  Himself 

To  harbors  of  heavenly  themes. 
Ah!    The  Far-Away  Mountains  are  fairest  to  me 

For  they  border  the  Valley  of  Dreams. 


CLOUD  MASS  ABOVE  THE  TWIN  SISTERS 

ONCE,  towed  in  by  some  mysterious  craft, 
To  our  Port,  the  Vale;  on  Sky's  inflown  draft — 
Perhaps  wheeled  in,  unseen,  by  day-hid  Wain; 
Anchoring  a  space  'bove  Eastern  Mountain, 
Arrived,  monster  Burg  of  Cloud,  lofty,  vast; 
Moored  there,  its  form  so  eminent  high  cast — 
'Twas  tho  God  had  brought  down  some  upper  World; 
A  Continent — anchor  dropped,  sails  all  furled, 
That  man,  in  wonder,  worship,  awed  delight, 
Could  view  the  Curls  of  that  enchanted  height. 

113 


Its  cerulean  base  floated  grandly — 
Purple  prow  and  hull  swam  in  azure  Sky; 
Methought  that  all  the  maids  and  nymphs  of  Air, 
Nude,  laughing,  roseate,  were  gathered  there; 
Diving  from  bright  beaches,  sands  yellow  fair — 
Sea  breezes  blowing  soft  their  golden  hair. 
Deep  blue  grottos,  caverns;  green,  pearl-lined  pools, 
Mingled  with  pink  coral's  up-welling  cools — 
Thus  the  Elysian  shore,  for  miles,  it  seemed, 
Revealed  in  Cloud,  the  lands  that  I  have  dreamed. 

Above  the  Shore- — splendor  of  Andes  seen; 
Altitudes  exalted,  vaulted,  serene — 
Radiant  Alps  of  Sky,  fleece— lustrous  winged; 
Em'nences  of  Glory,  so  fervent  tinged 
With  blushes  of  Sunset,  scarlet,  deep  glowed, 
As  tho  a  God's  vast  heart  with  blood-spurts  flowed 
And  down  a  continent  its  ebbings  poured 
Arterial— white  valleys  all  red  gored. 
Before  my  awe-struck  eyes  new  contours  rose, 
Each  fuller  swelling  Grandeur's  high  impose. 
Cities,  temples;  gardens,  fields  and  bowers, 
Magic  raised,  by  rare  Protean  powers, 
Displayed  themselves  in  kaleidoscopic  view; 
Spellbound,  I  gazed — wonder  on  wonder  grew. 

Then  came  Shade — rose,  to  lavender  decayed; 

Those  fair  celestial  summits  slowly  fade, 

As  the  Sun,  the  Vale's  western  line  has  run — 

His  eager  wheels  on  mountain  lands  now  done, 

And  all  dark,  Dusk-plumed,  broods  that  sky -hung  land: 

Illumed,  the  while,  with  flares  of  Lightning's  brand, 

Till,  ghostly,  its  crests  by  white  Lunar  beams 

Shine  palely  phosphor'ent,  as  ice-berg  gleams. 

At  last,  with  bending  mast,  and  sails  full  spread — 

As  ship  bound  out  to  sea,  it  moves  ahead; 

'Tis  cast  adrift  on  Ocean  wide,  of  Night — 

Farewell!     My  Argosy — my  Cloud  Ship  bright! 


114 


THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  OWL 

OFT,  as  in  summer  evenings 
I  scan  the  twilight  skies, 
Two  bird  notes  from  the  dark'ning 
Woodlands  sweet  and  tuneful  rise. 
One  —  it  is  the  dusk  Owl,  who 

Hoots  of  the  deepening  night; 
The  other  is  the  Robin, 

Piping  of  the  Morrow  bright. 

And  as  the  note  of  Omen 

Thru  my  soul  doth  dismal  surge, 
The  joyous  song  of  Robin 

Doth  blithely  caroling  urge 
Glad  hopes  of  the  dewy  morning  — 

Of  warm,  day-mounting  sun, 
And  thrills  my  heart  expectantly 

Of  happiness  to  come. 

'Tis  wondrous  —  lifting  soul  to  God  — 

That  e'en  the  feathered  throngs, 
Of  many  different  species 

And  diveis  airy  songs, 
Fulfill  the  constant  Law  of  Change  — 

Successive  Day  and  Night; 
Pessimistic  man  illum'd 

By  Hope's  optimistic  light. 

THREE  WAYS  TO  WORSHIP  GOD 


are  three  ways  to  worship  God, 
And  each  a  path  to  His  high  abode: 
Labor,  Adoration,  Prayer  — 

Sweet  trinity  that  leads  you  there. 

And  of  the  three,  I  venture,  dare  — 

Adoration,  grandest,  whate'er. 

And  Prayer,  oft  born  of  despair, 

Creeps  softly  to  that  Presence  rare. 

Then  Labor  —  toil  and  works,  full  share, 

Wins  the  Master  —  Your  deeds  declare. 

But—  Ah!     Blessed!     Thrice  blessed,  fair, 

If  whole  trinity  you  can  bear. 

115 


DEATH  OF  THE  MOON 


'rT"'IS  past  Midnight,  Morn  is  by. 
,    Wan  rises  the  broken,  dying  Moon 

O'er  the  splintered  edges  of  the  Gorge, 
And  casts  its  one,  bloodshot  eye 
At  the  Foothills  huddled  nigh; 
Herded,  as  stabled  cattle, 

'Neath  great  Bootes'  scorpioned  scourge, 
Against  the  vasty  shed  walls  of  the  Range, 
Sleepily  peering  at  the  red  Disc  strange. 

Tis  Night's  darkest  hour — its  lees. 

Bark  now  the  Dawn  Hounds  on  the  Great  Hills, 

Baying  wild  as  the  pale  Dawn  steals; 
Rushing  toward  the  East  a  breeze — 
Rousing  from  their  sleep,  the  trees. 
The  high  Range  wakes  to  Daybreak — 

Warm,  the  kiss  of  Morning  feels. 
Peaks  stand  scarlet — their  snows  flush  rosy  fire — 
The  wan  Moon  dies  upon  the  Sunrise  pyre. 


I'LL  SING  TO  THEE,  WILD  MOUNTAIN 

I'LL  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 
All  white  with  your  gleaming  snow; 
When  the  storms  of  Winter  linger 
In  the  North  Wind's  icy  blow. 
I'll  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 

When  the  Spring  time  aspens  grow; 
When  their  rippling  greens  so  brightly 
'Gainst  your  red  crags  softly  show. 

I'll  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 
From  my  alpine  cot  below, 
This  song  while  you  softly  slumber 
In  the  streamlet's  drowsy  flow. 

You're  my  own  true  Love,  wild  Mountain, 

Our  sweet  vows  only  sunsets  know; 

That  love  which  we  breathe  so  tender 

In  the  golden  alpenglow. 

116 


I'll  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 

With  your  brow  sublime  on  high; 
With  your  heights  serenely  smiling 

In  summer's  langorous  sky. 
I'll  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 

With  your  slopes  divinely  fair; 
All  sweet  with  their  honey'd  blossoms 

Where  the  wild  bee  wings  the  air. 

I'll  sing  to  Thee,  wild  Mountain, 
From  my  alpine  cot  beldw, 
This  song  while  you  softly  slumber 
In  the  streamlet's  drowsy  flow. 

You're  my  own  true  Love,  wild  Mountain, 

Our  sweet  vows  only  sunset's  know; 

That  love  which  we  breathe  so  tender 

In  the  golden  alpenglow. 


MOONRISE  IN  THE  VALE  OF  ELKANAH 
June,  7,  1914 

SUMMER'S     voice    is    hushed— the     night-hawk 
soaring, 

Insect  hunting,  hoarse  guttural  roaring, 
As  o'er  the  western  mountains  soft  stealing 
Creeps  tender  glow  each  peak  bright  revealing, 
From  Luna's  great  lantern  swung  o'er  the  Plains 
As  she  lights  her  way  'cross  Earth's  dark  domains. 
'Tis  strange — reared  bulk  of  yon  sleeping  mountain 
Rimming  the  Vale  on  east,  Twin  Peaks,  the  twain, 
So  checks  the  sky,  that  long  past  the  first  beam 
Of  moon,  setting  the  western  edge  agleam, 
The  eastern  mountain  still  lies  deep  in  night 
Tho  long  the  west  has  basked  in  lovely  light. 

Summer's  voice  is  hushed — like  herds,  night-feeding, 
The  shaggy  foothills,  low  east  receding, 
Ridge  the  dusky  hollows  of  southern  range; 
Their  bushy  heads  raised  like  startled  beasts  strange, 
As  on  them  burst  the  flood-gates  of  the  Moon 
Silvering  the  blossomy  buds  of  June: 

117 


Drowsy  these  swarthy  bulls  blink  the  soft  light 
Then  droop  their  heads  in  night  fogs  rising  white. 
The  Vale's  northern  summits  now  luminous  stand 
Within  the  circle  of  the  lunar  band; 
Yet  still  the  eastern  mountain,  beetling  height, 
Hides  the  glittering  candle  of  the  night. 

Summer's  voice  is  hushed — yet  sweet  expectance 
Stirs  her  maiden  breast  with  dreaming  romance, 
As  airy  Zephyr,  with  flow'ry  fragrance, 
Fills  Vale,  from  Verdure's'  fresh  dew-kissed  expanse. 
Atop  the  sleeping  mountain,  cherub  clouds, 
Still  flushed  with  alpenglow,  the  summit  crowds, 
Smiling,  rosy,  to  greet  the  rising  gods; 
Who,  lustrous  crown'd  from  celestial  abodes — 
Those  shining  stars  that,  vasty  wheeling,  soon 
Will  glimmer  o'er  the  crest  with  queenly  moon. 
Close  now,  presses  the  western  line  of  light, 
Which  foretells,  Luna  scales  the  eastern  height. 


118 


Summer's  voice  is  hushed  —  streaks  of  palish  light 

Show  faintly  on  the  crest,  dim  ghostly  white; 

And  those  cupid  clouds,  spectrum  colors  gleam, 

As  stronger,  brighter,  a  slow  deep'ning  beam 

Flares  now  the  imminent  radiant  East  — 

Fires  lighting  every  eminent  crest. 

With  white  vapours  now  veiled  —  brassy  planet  wheel  — 

Disc,  yellow  golden,  that  thin'd  mists  reveal; 

Then,  great  Moon,  target  of  shining  silver, 

Flooding  the  Vale  with  orient  splendor  — 

She  comes,  fair  deity,  the  Queen  of  Night! 

In  her  train,  Heaven's  constellations  bright. 

There  are  holy  moments,  when  two  worlds  meet  — 
Souls,  in  Infinite  Mind,  winged  angels  greet; 
Sublime,  huge  planetary  orbs  in  sight, 
Their  worlds  meet  in  Shadow's  ecliptic  flight. 
Wonderful!     'Gainst  those  lunar  mountains  white, 
The  Vale's  east  rim  is  silhouetted  bright; 
Pines,  rocks,  clefts,  on  moon's  face  figured  cast, 
The  nigh  world  seen  on  distant  planet  vast. 
Summer's  voice  soft  hushed  —  -the  Spectacle  o'er; 
She  sighs  —  the  sweetest  moon  of  all  the  year, 
With  beamy  light  and  mellow  glow  is  here; 
The  night  world  stirs  and  claims  its  fairest  hour. 

THE  COLUMBINES  ARE  BLOOMING  IN  THE 
HIGH  COUNTREE 


S  a  breeze  blows  off  the  mountain 
|        That's  soft  as  it  can  be; 

There's  a  sound  of  waters  flowing 
'Mong  the  groves  of  leafing  tree; 
There's  a  scent  from  blossoms  wafted 
That  is  calling  sweet  to  me  — 
The  columbines  are  blooming 
In  the  high  countree. 

There's  a  shady  dell  of  aspen 

On  the  trail  to  Eden  Dee, 
Where  the  flowers  stand  and  listen 

To  the  chinook  in  the  tree. 


119 


They're  the  fairies  of  the  bowers 
And  they're  ever  dear  to  me — 
The  columbines  are  blooming 
In  the  high  countree. 

The  bright  moon  shines  in  the  valley 
And  the  owl  wings  o'er  the  lea. 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  wander 
On  the  trail  to  Eden  Dee, 

Where  the  fairies  of  the  flowers 

Sleep  beneath  the  green-wood  tree — 
The  columbines  are  blooming 
In  the  high  countree. 

See  them  standing  and  a  nodding, 

Just  as  sleepy  as  can  be; 
They're  a  dreaming  of  the  sunshine 

And  the  wind  that  rocks  them  free; 
They're  the  darlings  of  the  flowers 

And  they're  ever  dear  to  me — 

The  columbines  are  blooming 
In  the  high  countree. 

When  I'm  old  and  cannot  travel 

On  the  trail  to  Eden  Dee; 
Children,  go  unto  the  bowers — 

Ask  a  blossom  sweet  for  me, 
From  the  fairies  of  the  flowers 

That  are  ever  dear  to  me — 

The  columbines  are  blooming 
In  the  high  countree. 


SHAFT  OF  GOLD  ON  GAME  PASS 

OFT,  when  the  morning  sun'has  topped  the  crests 
Of  the  eastern  rim  of  Elkanah's  Vale, 
A  shaft  of  gold,  shot  thru  Game  Pass,  narrow, 
Gleams  bright  on  Levings  Wood — a  Golden  Trail, 
Blazed  in  sun-swept  beauty  on  the  plush  of 
Forest,  green  and  dark,  verduring  that  dale. 

120 


GROUSE 

HOW  oft  in  quiet  excursions  we  meet, 
'Mong  mountain  forests  deep  and  copses  sweet, 
Bevies  of  fowl  where  the  low  bushes  part, 
Which  careless  foot  or  nosing  dog  will  start. 
With  sudden  startling  whirr  of  roaring  wings, 
A  bird,  that  frightened  cries  and  wildly  flings 
Its  form  'cross  the  intruding  trav'lers  path, 
Invokes  on  its  innocent  head  that  wrath 
With  which  many  hereditary  foes 
Have  brought  its  flesh  to  slaughter  with  their  blows — 
Dear  fowl,  devoted  parent  of  a  brood 
That  yet  extinction  cruel  has  withstood. 
On  the  ground — cat,  wolf,  and  fox,  hunt  your  form; 
In  tree — hawk,  owl,  and  eagle,  your  alarm. 
By  night,  by  day,  by  starlight,  sun  or  moon, 
Foes  eager  lurk,  to  bring  you  to  your  doom. 
But  fear  not,  little  hen,  we'll  mind  your  brood 
With  cherished  love  and  fond  solicitude; 
Mother  grouse,  dwelling  woods  coniferous, 
Protecting  young  with  charming  artifice; 
With  loud  whirr  of  wings — inimitable  sound — 
Thrilling  percussion  'mid  surging  wildness  'round; 
The  noblest  game  bird  of  the  mountain  land — 
Dusky  Grouse,  dear  forest,  feathered  band. 

BIG  BLUE  DAY 

BIG  Blue  Day- 
Blowing  the  sails  of  the  Sky  away, 
Dispersing  the  storms  of  Yesterday; 
Under  the  play  of  the  Sun's  gold  ray, 
Whirling  the  leaves  of  Autumn  astray; 
I  kiss  your  sweet  lips,  September  Day, 
All  wined  with  grape  and  crimson  spray; 
Over  the  Hills  and  Far-away — 
Bright  Maid  of  the  Biting  Blue's  array! 

Shafts  of  sun  on  the  birches  red, 
Roaring  of  mad  gales  overhead; 
Forests  of  pine  in  waving  green, 
Cobwebs  clinging  in  satin  sheen; 

121 


Rust  on  the  meadows  velvet  brown, 
Snow  on  the  mountain  gleaming  down; 
Aspens  standing  in  leafy  gold, 
Frosts  nipping  swamp-side  cattails  bold; 
Canons  basking  in  Fall's  amber  glow, 
Crag-heads  stemming  the  Big  Blue's  blow; 
Ah!    This  is  the  day  when  the  Great  Winds  play- 
Tossing  the  Plumes  of  September  gay! 

Bighorn  down  on  the  Valley  floor, 
Birds  flying  South  over  the  moor; 
Black-tails  scenting  the  gustings  keen, 
Bull  elk  calling  to  mates  unseen; 
Brown  bear  hunting  a  winter  den, 
Coyote  skulking  the  leaf -lined  glen; 
Chipmunk  trying  his  cosy  hole, 
Gray  squirrel  searching  cone  tree's  bole; 
Beaver  plast'ring  his  mid-pond  house, 
Goshawk  hunting  the  dusky  grouse; 
Ah!     This  is  the  day  when  the  Great  Winds  play- 
Tossing  the  Plumes  of  September  gay! 

Big  Blue  Day- 
Blowing  the  sails  of  the  Sky  away, 
Dispersing  the  storms  of  Yesterday; 
Under  the  play  of  the  Sun's  gold  ray, 
Whirling  the  leaves  of  Autumn  astray; 
I  kiss  your  sweet  lips,  September  Day, 
All  wined  with  grape  and  crimson  spray; 
Over  the  Hills  and  Far-away- 
Bright  Maid  of  the  Biting  Blue's  array! 


UP  WITH  THE  BOUGHS  OF  ASPEN 

Children       We  bring  you  boughs  of  aspen — 

Bring  you  leaves  of  golden  Fall. 
We  bring  you  sprays  of  crimson 

To  deck  your  festive  hall. 
They  gleamed  like  fire  on  the  mountain, 

As  they  beckoned  and  waved  to  us; 
We  shouted  and  climbed  toward  them — 

Bright  they  greeted  us  most  joyous. 

122 


Host  Then  up  with  the  boughs  of  aspen — 

With  the  leaves  of  golden  Fall. 
Up  with  the  sprays  of  crimson 

To  deck  our  festive  hall. 
Brought  from  the  hills  of  Autumn, 

Where  the  hoar-frost  tinged  the  greens; 
Gleaned  by  the  hands  of  children, 

Reaping  'mid  happy  scenes. 

All  Then  up  with  the  boughs  of  aspen — 

With  the  leaves  of  golden  Fall. 
Up  with  the  sprays  of  crimson 

To  deck  our  festive  hall. 
Gathered  in  joy  from  the  woodlands — 

Bright  symbols  of  Harvest  Days; 
Up  with  the  boughs  of  aspen, 

Singing  the  Master's  praise! 


From  the  south,  Estes  Cone,  both  at  a  distance  and  close  by,  is 
the  most  perfectly  symmetrical  of  peaks.  From  the  city  of  Denver, 
at  any  of  the  principal  view  points,  it  appears  as  a  perfect  pyramid, 
the  sharpest  point  in  the  northwest,  and  in  spite  of  its  more  lofty 
neighbors,  is  plainly  visible  in  the  low  skyline  between  the  Twin 
Sisters  and  Longs  Peak.  Being  the  northern  peak  head  of  the  Vale 
of  Elkanah,  one  thus  looks  directly  into  the  Vale  from  Denver,  a 
distance  of  nearly  fifty  miles,  altho  only  its  upper  altitudes  are 
observed — about  the  10,500  foot  contour  line.  From  its  summit, 
11,017  feet,  is  a  splendid  prospect  of  Estes  and  Moraine  parks. 
Battle  Mountain  adjoins  it  on  the  west,  the  divide  between  them 
being  Storm  Pass,  across  which  passes  a  horse  trail  connecting  the 
Vale  with  points  on  the  south  fork  of  the  Big  Thompson  river. 

Lion  Gulch,  an  interesting  feature  of  this  mountain,  is  a  remark 
able  natural  amphitheatre,  almost  perfectly  oval,  with  granite  walls 
festooned  by  beautiful  growths  of  fir,  pine,  spruce,  aspen,  and  shrub 
bery.  This  gulch  was  formerly  the  home  of  mountain  lions  and  they 
still  range  in  the  vicinity,  the  slopes  of  this  peak  being  a  favorite 
haunt  of  the  big-horn,  their  constant  prey.  The  gulch  was  acquired 
from  the  Government  under  the  Timber  &  Stone  act,  by  Edwin 
Fraser  Gillette  about  191 1.  Dean  Babcock  has  made  some  original 
finds  of  botany  on  the  south  side  of  this  peak,  discovering  specimens 
usually  native  to  much  lower  botanical  zones,  but  doubtless  extended 
here  on  account  of  being  sheltered  from  the  usual  climatical  rigors  of 
this  altitude  by  the  north  and  west  walls  of  the  mountain;  and  its 
extremely  attractive  sunny  nooks  and  ledges,  sufficiently  watered 
by  ample  moisture,  afford  plant  life  a  comparatively  mild  climate. 

The  Ledges,  a  wonderful  region  of  red  granite  terraces  and  ledges, 
on  the  lower  southeast  slope  of  the  Cone,  was  purchased  under  the 
Timber  &  Stone  act  in  1909,  by  Mrs.  Josephine  Babcock. 

123 


THE  SAVANT 


ESTES  CONE-Vale  Throne! 
Calm,    Magnificent,    you    are    tonight,    Grand 

Mountain! 

Couchant,  leonine — supreme  in  northern  sky! 
Clear-browed,  benign,  all-peaceful,  gentle,  Savant; 
Exalted  Eminence,  commanding  vistas  high. 
You  are  the  Peak  of  Rare  Moments — sole  dominance! 
Thou,  often  the  brightest  Vale  crest — storm  clouds  on 

Thee  furled — 

Loftier  peaks  peer  frowned  askance  of  Thy  countenance, 
When  Thy  fair  Periods  dominate  the  whole  Vale  world. 
Brightly,  the  full  gleamed  Moon,  hid  from  mid- Vale 

narrowly 

By  passing  cloud,  beams  on  Thee  alone,  celestially, 
As  Thou,  sheer  Crag,  transfix  a  sky  of  melting  blue, 
Streaming  toward  the  West  a  lunar  avenue. 
The  Twilight  loves  and  softly  fondles  you,  dear  Height; 
So,  too,  when  unmooned  and  planets  by  mists  grown 

dim, 

You  feel  about  you  the  confiding  arms  of  Night; 
And  oft  illumed  you  are,  when  the  far  Northern  Light 
Espys  you  and  burns  its  white  flares  on  your  further  rim. 
Often,  the  Sun,  shut  out  by  vaprous  canopy 
From  all  other  regions  of  mountain  defiles  steep, 
Centers  his  full  shaft  on  Thee  in  flamiest  hue; 
Or  at  sunset,  on  Thee  bursts  a  radiant  gleam 
Athwart  a  storm  cast  sky,  by  other  peaks  unseen; 
Then  revealing  to  the  once  undiscerning  eye, 
Sublime  transfigurations  in  enchanting  view, 
Which  the  enraptured  Bard  in  mind  will  ever  keep. 

Estes  Cone!    Alp  Home! 

Symmetrical,  broad  flanked,  with  ridged  slopes  east  and 

west; 

Benevolent,  shel'tring,  with  mighty  arms  outstretched — 
Strong  to  shield  from  the  icy  North  the  Vale  endepthed, 
Nor  let  the  bitter  Pole  breeze  its  bowers  invest. 
Buttressed  by  ledges  ponderous,  massy  cliffs  of  Art; 
To  which  lichens,  mosses,  rare  growths,  stains,  dyes, 

bright  impart 

124 


Splashes  of  color,  endeeped  by  mist-fine  rain — 

In  the  sun's  glare,  subdued — of  delicate  vein. 

Here,   weathered  granite  forms,   red,   brown,   shaped 

weird,  uncouth, 

As  sculptor's  blocks  set  up  and  figures  partly  cut; 
Amphitheatres,  parks  of  shimm'ring  aspen  trees; 
Gardens  of  flowers  intoxant  to  fever'd  bees. 
Above,  spread  ample  to  the  castled  crag-hewn  top, 
Wrink'd  with  many  a  soft  fold  of  shrub  blossomed  crop, 
A  rich  plush  of  forest  green  robes  our  dear  Savant, 
His  summit,  deep  'robed  granite  of  brown  and  tan. 
All  abroad,  in  many  a  sylvan  dell,  appear, 
Tufted  herbage  sweet  and  fragrant  to  browsing  deer. 
And,  besides  the  normal  growth,  a  strange  botany, 
Persuaded  and  maintained — an  isled  colony — 
By  habitat  sunny,  warm,  soft-dew'd,  mild  tempered; 
Flora  of  lower  zones  thus  sweetly  attracted, 
Example  of  our  Savant's  rare  personality. 
'Mid  all  his  verdant  slopes  are  welling  fountains  clear, 
Brimming  the  bright  bird-flitting  glades  with  sparkling 

mere. 

Estes  Cone — Proud  Dome! 
Yet  not  proud — say,  better — invincibly  poised; 
Equilibrium  most  perfect,  howe'er  the  storm — 
Howe'er  the  sky,  capricious,  sinks  to  liquid  calm. 
Content  to  yield  the  sovran  Altitude  to  other  peaks, 
Higher,  loftier;  knowing,  that  on  their  heads  exposed 
The  Gods  of  Storm  fiercest  their  spleen  tempest'ous 

wreaks. 

Prime  Minister,  Thou!     Equal  to  all  moods  of  State. 
When  kings  and  queens,  tho  ruling,  tremble  in  their 

gowns — 

When  widest  Revolution  threats  their  very  crowns — 
Thou,  cool-glanced,  quiet  contemplate  impending  Fate. 
Thy  brows,  emerging  from  every  dire  appalling  cloud, 
Serene,  uplifted  are — calm,  steadfastly  fixed  on  God. 
Superbly  the  Great  Bear  revolves  Thee  vasty  'round 
As  the  set  Seasons  come  and  go  with  yearly  bound. 
Above  Thee  gleams  the  Polar  Star  divinely  bright— 
Not  more  fixed,  its  beam  in  space,  than  Thy  crest, 

Grand  Height! 


125 


SCOLD  0'  MOUNTAIN 

r  I  ^HERE'S  a  handsome,  leaping,  gray-furred   crea- 
I  ture— 

The  Fremont  Squirrel,  a  mountain  feature; 
Living  on  nut-like  seeds  of  spruce  and  pine, 
Nesting  where  their  high  branches  thick  entwine; 
Gath'ring  their  cones  when  ripened  in  the  Fall, 
Which  litter  ground,  felled  from  conifers  tall. 
Should  innocent  intruder  discovered  be 
By  Squirrel,  nutting  his  hoard,  thus  busy, 
Such  a  jawing,  such  a  fussing,  scolding, 
Issues  from  that  furry  imp  beholding, 
That  the  forest  echoes  loudly,  shrilly; 
Perhaps  stirs  a  nosing  jay,  who  quickly 
Adds  his  ready  squall  to  the  wild  alarm, 
Causing  intruder  to  really  think  harm 
Has  been  done  to  His  Highness  in  the  tree. 
Then,  when  one  attempts  their  apology, 
Begins  an  automatic  clock-winding, 
As  tho,  now  thru  with  his  loud  fault-finding, 
It  must  wind  the  spring  that  runs  the  awful  scold 
To  loose  on  him  who  next  should  intrude  bold. 
A  wondrous  creeper,  leaper,  tree  to  tree, 
This  denizen  of  forest  dwelling  free; 
This  roguish,  spring-winding,  Scold  0'  Mountain — 
Fremont  Squirrel,  invective  hurricane. 


THE  YOUNG  ARTIST  OF  DEEPS 


HE  was  borne  on  the  breast 
Of  a  woman  most  true; 
Keen  sensed  of  a  destiny 
That  none  but  she  knew. 
A  warm  fleshed  fabric 

Of  heart  and  pure  soul, 
Who  sought  not  of  man, 
But  of  God,  her  high  goal. 


126 


She  reared  him  in  all 

That  writ  catalog  lore, 
Which  men  scan  in  world 

Ledgers  over  and  o'er. 
She  traveled  him  far 

On  continents  old, 
And  trained  him  in  sports 

That  made  his  youth  bold. 

And  when  at  last  her 

Quick  eye  read  his  unrest, 
Of  all  those  surroundings 

That  others  like  best; 
And  kenned  that  her  eaglet 

Would  fly  her  warm  nest, 
And  in  distant  lands 

His  young  talents  attest; 
She,  as  queens  yield  their  scepters 

To  prince's  new  rule — 
And  former  scholars  take  place 

Of  teachers  in  school — 
Gave  way  to  the  call 

Of  his  high  soaring  mind, 
And  watched  from  the  home  nest 

The  choice  of  his  kind. 

Twas  in  the  wild  Rocky  Mountains 

He  reared  his  lone  cot; 
Afar  from  base  worldly  mouthings 

He  cast  his  new  lot; 
'Mong  the  green  glossy  pines 

Which  the  western  wind  stirs; 
'Mong  the  sunny  red  crags 

And  the  songs  of  the  birds. 

And  he  welcomed  her  there, 

His  dear  mother  of  old; 
And  oft  by  his  warm  hearth 

The  fond  story  he  told; 
Of  his  dreams  of  the  mountains — 

Their  wild  craggy  heights — 
Of  their  wind  chanting  star  songs 

And  pure  nature  sights. 

127 


And  the  home  that  they  made 

Stands  bright  in  the  eye 
Of  all  the  white  Vale  clouds 

The  winds  ferry  by; 
And  the  light  from  their  window 

Shines  far  in  the  night; 
And  seems  a  star  among  stars, 

So  fair  and  so  bright. 

Oh!    He's  young  and  he's  fair, 
Is  the  Artist  of  Deeps; 
And  high  on  the  mountain 
Strict  vigil  he  keeps; 
Of  the  course  of  that  line 
In  the  Infinite  Plan, 
Which  shall  stand  before  God 
As  the  full  finished  Man. 

No  sad  sordid  sight 

Meets  his  clear  scanning  eye. 
His  gaze,  ever  upward, 

Is  visioned  so  high, 
That  the  old,  dying,  World, 

Sinking  low  in  the  trough, 
Is  o'er  topped  by  the  New  Earth 

And  Heaven  nigh  off. 
And  his  hand,  master-fine, 

Shapes  the  glorious  line — 
Spreads  the  twelve  jeweled 

Colors  of  Temple  divine, 
Which  is  rising  On  High 

'Mid  the  new  breaking  skies; 
Where  God  waits  Redeemed  Man 

And  the  clear  waters  rise, 
Of  that  Stream  of  Pure  Life 

In  the  New  Paradise, 
As  the  World  melts  in  flame, 

And  Sin,  writhing,  dies. 

And  mountaineers  say, 
That  one  fair  sunny  day, 

An  Angel  came  down  from 
The  Heavenly  Way 

128 


And  asked  of  a  Shepherd 

Who  sat  nigh  his  flock; 
"Oh,  Shepherd,  I  ask  you; 

Oh,  where  is  that  rock — 
Where  dwells  in  these  mountains 

The  young  Artist  of  Deeps, 
Who  true  to  God's  mission 

His  pure  life  ever  keeps?" 

The  Shepherd  made  answer, 

With  hand  pointing  clear; 
"There,  heaven  bless'd  Being, 

One  lives  year  by  year; 
Who  pencils  and  paints 

And  his  eye  scarcely  sleeps. 
Who  ever  his  vigil 

On  upper  skies  keeps — 
It  may  be  that  he 

Is  your  young  Artist  of  Deeps.' 

"The  truth  you  have  spoken, 

Oh,  Shepherd,  so  good;" 
Spake  the  Angel  most  fair 

In  sweet  attitude; 
"When  the  Most  High  sent 

Me  forth  on  this  task  divine, 
He  spoke  of  you  as  one 

To  whom  I  should  incline 
My  ear  for  direction 

Of  the  young  Artist  of  Deeps, 
Who  ever  his  faithful  vigil 

On  upper  skies  keeps." 

But  neither  Poet,  nor  Man, 

Nor  the  Shepherd  ought, 
Knows  why  the  bright  Angel 

The  young  Artist  sought; 
Or  why  he  is  called 

The  young  Artist  of  Deeps 
Unless,  in  His  love  of  him 

Who  Deep  Secret  keeps, 
To  aid  most  divinely 

129 


His  hand  master-fine, 
To  truer  draw  and  keen — 

That  glorious  line 
Of  the  Word  decreed 

Draft  of  the  Infinite  Plan, 
Which  shall  stand  before  God 

As  the  full  finished  Man. 

Oh!     He's  young  and  he's  fair. 

Is  the  Artist  of  Deeps; 

And  high  on  the  mountain 

Strict  vigil  he  keeps; 

Of  the  the  course  of  that  line 

In  the  Infinite  Plan, 

Which  shall  stand  before  God 

As  the  full  finished  Man! 

THE  MARMOT 

SKULK  of  the  ledges,  the  screeching  Marmot; 
Of  color  reddish-brown,  like  that  granite 
In  which  it  nests  and  burrows  'mid  the  rocks, 
With  lone  sentinel  sitting,  which  eye  cocks, 
For  close  approach  of  man  or  beast  abroad; 
When  seen,  sounding  loud  alarm  to  the  brood, 
Then  darting  with  shrill  outcries  to  its  den — 
When  danger's  past,  to  seek  its  post  again. 
Of  woodchuck  and  ground-hog  is  its  species; 
Roots  and  herbs  its  food,  and  those  lunches 
Which  trav'lers  cast  off  and  which  it  munches, 
Squatted,  eating,  on  its  tawny  haunches. 
The  Marmot,  sounding  constant  screeching  fright; 
Skulk  of  ledges,  burrowing  troglodyte. 

BRIDGE  OF  CLOUDS  ON  STORM  PASS 

ONE  evening,  looking  toward  that  stormy  Crest 
Thru  which  the  belchings  of  the  far  Northwest — 
Winter's  blizzards  cold  and  Summer's  tempest 
Drive  thru  that  portal  and  Vale's  depths  invest; 
Storm  Pass,  'twixt  Battle's  mount  and  Estes  Cone — 
Great  Window,  thru  which  storms  are  ever  blown; 
I  saw  a  span  of  sun-spun,  glitt'ring  gold, 
An  arch,  that  vaulted  those  summits  bold; 
Suspended  there,  for  passage  of  the  Gods; 
A  sky-hung  viaduct— a  Bridge  of  Clouds. 


I  watched  It  as  the  setting  sun  sank  down; 

Saw  its  gildings  rust  to  faded  saffron — 

That  moment,  'neath  it  flowed  the  tide  of  Night; 

Above  it,  shone  still,  Day's  lingering  light. 

Ah!     How  much  to  me  that  tempest'ous  Height 

Hath  brought — of  spectacle  and  pageant  bright; 

Of  Sunset,  Storm — all  Nature's  skied  delight; 

Tripping  Spring,  Summer,  Fall,  Boreal  might — 

Expressions  eloquent  of  Season's  flight. 

Adieu!     Yon  Cloud-crown'd  Citadel!     Goodnight! 


Lamb's  Notch  was  named  after  the  family  of  Rev.  E.  J.  Lamb, 
whose  last  residence  in  Elkanah  Valley,  a  neat  log  house,  sets  in  a 
grove  of  iodge-pole  pine  within  a  short  distance  of  a  remarkable 
Pass  caused  by  the  Sheep  Mountain  range,  running  south  from  the 
Big  Thompson  river  opposite  from  where  the  Beaver  Park  stream 
flows  into  the  Thompson,  and  which  terminates  on  the  south  in  the 
summit  known  as  Lily  Mountain,  whose  lower  south  slope  adjoins 
at  a  right  angle  with  the  divide,  running  east  and  west,  between 
Estes  Cone  and  the  Twin  Sisters;  thus  forming  a  triple  pass  or  divide 
from  which  one  can  descend  directly  into  Estes  Park,  or  to  Moraine 
Park  via  Wind  River  gorge,  or  into  the  Vale  of  Elkanah.  Mr.  Lamb, 
in  cutting  the  pioneer  road  from  Estes  Park  into  the  Vale,  cut  a 
distinct  gash  or  notch  in  the  timber  on  the  summit  or  skyline  of  this 
divide,  which  is  plainly  visible  from  the  Vale. 

The  State  highway  between  Estes  and  Aliens  parks  passes  thru 
the  very  lowest  depression  of  the  pass. 


LAMB'S  NOTCH 


JAMB'S  NOTCH— 
J_-j         The  Triple  Pass! 

Wind  River  Gorge — northwest, 

With  views  sublime  of  the  Mummy  strange; 

Ypsilon,  Fairchiid,  and  stormy  Hague's, 

Sharp  tooth  and  tusk  of  the  rampant  Range; 

Snows  aloft,  wild  slopes  where  the  wind  Furies  rage; 

Lower  down,  forests  vast  in  purple  haze; 

Still  lower,  the  deep  Gorge  where  the  streamlet  plays. 

131 


Lamb's  Notch— 

The  Triple  Pass! 

Fair  Estes  Park/ — northeast, 
Amphian  field  of  the  bowling  Gods, 
Rolling  Thunder,  and  Tempest,  and  Storm; 
With  flower  strewn  floor  set  in  verdant  sods; 
Walled  with  red  crags  and  green  woods  in  form, 
Supporting  a  dome  of  turquoise  sky — 
Olympian  prospect,  enchanting  the  eye. 

Lamb's  Notch — 
The  Triple  Pass! 
Elkanah's  Vale — due  south, 

Pure  Valley  of  White  'neath  the  winter  snows; 

In  summer  a  Bowl  where  the  Sunset  red  glows; 

The  Port  of  Call  for  world  voyaging  Clouds; 

A  Haven  of  Mists  and  vap'rous  Shrouds; 

The  bright  Vale  where  the  Muses  and  Hours  throng, 

Singing  the  chorus  of  High  Nature's  song. 

WOMAN,  WAKE  ME 

WOMAN,  wake  me, 
Ere  the  red  dawn  flares  the  East. 
Woman,  wake  me; 
From  thy  chamber  issue 
To  speed  the  warrior  Priest." 

So  spoke  the  knightly  stranger 

As  he  stood  before  the  hall, 
Then  led  his  steed  to  fodder 

Within  the  stable  stall. 

The  woman  lit  the  candles 

Upon  the  altar  bright. 
The  marble  Virgin  glittered 

In  the  soft  and  mellow  light. 

All  night  the  woman  tended 

As  the  knight  slept  in  the  hall. 
Outside  the  high  stars  twinkled 

O'er  the  mountains  dark  and  tall. 

132 


At  dawn  she  woke  the  stranger; 

Heard  his  steel  clank  'gainst  the  wall. 
Saw  him  kneel  before  the  altar — 

Cross  himself  symbolical. 

At  last  he  rode  before  her 
Firm  astride  his  prancing  steed; 

His  armour  shone  in  splendor — 
His  arms  fit  for  mighty  deed. 

"Oh!     Woman!     You  are  dutiful; 

Your  mien  is  chaste  and  true. 

I  shall  tell  our  holy  Master 

Of  your  keeping  Him  in  view. 

You  have  that  saintly  beauty 

Which  cancels  every  sin; 

The  Mystical  that  sanctifies — 

Which  lights  the  soul  within. 

I  have  seen  it  in  the  children; 

In  harlot,  maid,  and  nun. 

I've  seen  it  in  the  Master 

As  His  glory  paled  the  sun. 

Oh!     Woman!     You  are  beautiful — 

Tend  still  thy  chapel  pure. 

I'll  tell  the  holy  Master 

That  your  faith  will  e'er  endure." 

The  woman  gazed  in  wonder 
As  his  steed  sprang  up  the  hill. 

On  the  crest  of  distant  mountain 
She  saw  his  pennon  still. 

Upon  him  flamed  the  sunrise — 
His  arms  shone  like  brightest  gold; 

She  gave  one  look  of  rapture, 
Then  her  beads  in  chapel  told. 

He  who  has  seen  some  woman 
Give  that  look  of  rapture  pure — 
That  man  has  seen  the  wonder 
Of  the  faith  that  will  endure. 


133 


LOVE'S  ONLY  A  MINUTE 

ErE'S  only  a  minute,  I  vow,  Dear, 
Like  this  blush  of  the  rosy  dawn; 
Only  once  in  the  whole  of  a  life,  Dear, 
Heart  to  heart,  we  are  deathless  drawn. 

Love's  only  a  minute,  I  vow,  Dear, 
Like  this  rise  of  the  golden  sun; 

Only  once  in  the  whole  of  a  life,  Dear, 
That  our  two  souls  join  as  one. 

Love's  only  a  minute,  I  vow,  Dear, 
Yet  it  needs  but  that  single  one, 

To  linger  the  sweet  years  together,  Dear, 
'Till  the  sands  of  our  life  have  run. 


PASS  ON,  NORTH  WIND 

PASS  on,  North  Wind,  tugging  fierce  at  my  door; 
Roar  on  to  the  marshes  on  the  wild  moor. 
Rattle  the  latch— bang  the  blind— blow  the  fire; 
Sift  snow  thru  cracks,  in  your  Boreal  ire; 
The  harder  you  blow — more  wood  I'll  bestow — 
On  the  hearth  that  heats  my  warm  hut  aglow. 
Pass  on,  North  Wind,  tugging  fierce  at  my  door; 
Roar  on  to  the  marshes  on  the  wild  moor. 


THE  COUGAR 

r~T1HE  Cougar,  mountain  lion— Scourge  of  Herds; 
I    Congealing  their  blood  to  terror  thicked  curds. 

Forever  death-trailing,  elk,  bighorn,  deer; 
Most  dread  enemy — their  eternal  fear. 
Tawny,  dull  dun  flash — vast  bounds  o'er  the  ground; 
Tooth  and  claw  at  neck — spine  and  jug'lar  found; 
Death!     Sudden,  terrible,  starts  wild  the  band; 
Snorting,  leaping,  quick  they  flee  the  fear'd  land. 

134 


Deep  sighs,  low,  fullest  satisfaction  sweet 
O'er  the  Kill — the  gory  prey  at  its  feet; 
The  glut  of  gore — the  long  designed  feast; 
Famishing  hunger  at  last  deep  appeased. 
Then  to  its  lair,  smote  by  o'erwhelming  sleep; 
To  start,  perhaps,  dreaming  of  murdered  sheep; 
Lambs,  past  slaughtered— those  that  fresh  slain  will  be; 
To  feed  this  Brawn — eternal  butchery. 

Yet,  game  fair  distribute;  e'en  this  vast  Cat 
Abhorred,  God  gave  an  honest  habitat. 
What  to  keep  herds  alert — their  spirit  bright; 
Elk,  deer,  bighorn — to  fleet  their  limbs  with  fright; 
To  quell  the  tick,  the  louse,  the  parasite; 
To  stimulate  their  function — superb  Flight. 
Where'er  beheld,  God's  clear  defined  Law — 
Herds  must  yield  flesh  to  feed  the  Cougar's  jaw. 


ANGELS  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 
A  Dream 

TWO  angels  entered  the  Poet's  rude  hut 
As  he  sat  in  the  Muses'  chair; 
They  seated  themselves  on  the  wooden  stools 
He  had  placed  for  visitors  there. 
One  was  brown,  and  dark,  with  red  lips  warm, 

And  stars  gleamed  in  her  beautiful  hair; 
Her  smile  was  soft  as  a  dim  moon-beam 

Aslant  the  forest's  darkest  lair. 
The  other  was  bright  like  a  golden  sun — 

Eyes  of  sky  and  a  face  most  fair — 
And  the  two  played  on  their  violins 
A  celestial  heavenly  air. 

The  door  was  ajar  and  the  fire  gleamed  bright 

As  the  angels  played  their  song; 
Rabbits  and  birds  crept  into  the  hut 

And  soft  joined  the  angelic  throng, 
Which  seemed  to  sweep  from  the  distant  skies 

To  list  to  the  wonderful  song. 

135 


Some  children  came  and  crept  into  the  lap 

Of  the  deep  brooding  Poet  there; 
They  cuddled  and  crooned  in  his  loving  arms 

As  he  sat  in  the  Muses'  chair. 
Then  thrushes  flew  swift  to  the  crude  mantle-piece 

And  piped,  in  their  way,  the  air; 
And  owls  joined  in  with  oboe  and  flute, 

Hooing  harmony  low  and  rare. 

This  song  was  ancient,  and  old,  and  hoar, 

It  alone  held  the  world  to  God; 
No  other  words  and  no  other  notes 

Ruled  with  such  magical  rod. 
It  began  in  the  grass  and  rose  to  the  hill — 

It  leaped  to  the  clouds  from  the  sod — 
It  conquered  the  stars  and  wooed  the  white  moon 

And  entered  the  mansions  of  God. 
It  was  tender,  and  sweet,  and  worshipful — 

It  was  warm,  and  thrilled  with  its  thrall; 
It  sang  of  a  Day  that  Ever-Shall-Be, 

With  its  love  that  is  All-in-All! 

The  two  angels  ceased  as  the  Day  came  nigh 

And  the  stars  slow  dimmed  in  the  sky; 
The  Poet  was  still  in  the  Muses'  chair 

In  the  depths  of  his  revery. 
The  children  slept  and  the  rabbits  soft  crept 

From  the  hut  with  the  birds  at  morn; 
The  Sun  in  might  in  his  arms  gathered  Night 

And  the  Day  in  its  place  was  born. 

The  Poet  woke  up  as  the  Day  peered  in — 

He  stepped  to  the  door  at  its  call. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  as  he  stood  in  its  light — 

'Twas  so  wonderful,  glorious,  and  bright; 
From  his  soul  swept  doubt,  from  his  eyes  all  tears; 

From  his  heart  all  sorrow,  all  wrongs,  all  fears; 
Twas  the  Day  at  last,  that  Ever-Shall-Be, 

With  its  love  that  is  All-in-All! 


136 


GONE  IS  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MONTH  OF  JUNE 

All    Gone  is  the  beautiful  month  of  June. 
Gone  like  a  flower  of  unfaded  bloom; 
Wafting  to  me  a  delicious  perfume 
Of  a  love  that  was  mine  in  its  brightest  noon. 
Ah!    June,  that  brought  to  me  my  honeymoon. 

Ah!     Gone  is  the  beautiful  month  of  June. 
Gone  with  the  dear  years  which  the  Old  Loves  own; 
Which  belong  to  them  when  young  hearts  are  done, 
Those  hearts  which  trembled  in  love's  sweetest  swoon. 
Ah!    June,  bring  back  to  me  my  honeymoon. 

Ah!     Gone  is  the  beautiful  month  of  June. 

To  return  again  when  the  Year  gives  room; 

To  summon  once  more  the  Old  Love  from  its  tomb, 

For  an  olden  lover  to  sweet  commune. 

Ah!    June,  to  mind  me  of  my  honeymoon. 

DAY  OF  CHIAROSCURO 

DAY  of  Chiaroscuro — Light  and  Shade; 
When  the  airy  textures  of  middle  Space — 
Neither  Earth  nor  Sky — fill,  as  they  invade, 
Intervening  region  with  Cloud's  embrace. 
For  a  while,  the  twain  seem  to  endure  this — 
Earth  and  Sun,  silent,  in  quiet  submiss; 
The  mountains  gloom  and  brood  among  the  mist — 
Chasm  and  canon  drink  vapor,  deep  abyssed. 
Birds  and  mammals,  depressed,  take  on  the  mood — 
A  profound  silence  holds  the  solemn  wood. 

At  last,  keen  resistance  moves  Earth  and  Sun; 
Defiant  to  enveloping  medium 
They  become — Midair's  battle  commotion 
Revealed,  as  a  sudden  sheen,  bright  gold-spun — 
Forced  down  along  the  edge  of  hard  pressed  Cloud, 
Driv'  earthward  by  the  Sun's  impetuous  crowd; 
Torn  and  tattered  by  the  embattled  Light, 
Headlong,  it  falls,  wounded,  from  upper  height, 
Its  fresh  companions,  rushing  to  the  fight, 
Gleam  golden  in  the  glare  of  sun-fires  bright. 

137 


As  mighty  Gryphons,  with  fierce  fangs  and  claws, 
Grappling,  in  deadly  hate,  midair,  those  gnaws 
That  breathe  a  fire  as  they  sink  their  fell  bite, 
Panting,  in  the  awful  clutches  of  the  fight— 
The  dragons,  Light  and  Shade,  contort  and  fill 
The  Vale  with  monster  Shadows,  every  hill 
And  Peak,  in  alternate  waves — the  bright  Sun 
Sweeping  o'er  them  with  Orient  pinion, 
Then  sombered  Shades,  purpureal,  surge  down — 
In  gulfs  of  indigo,  Light's  beams  they  drown. 

In  every  gorge  and  chasm,  whole  companies 

Of  Mists,  in  battle,  sweat;  and  wondrous  frieze 

Of  pure  alabaster — white  forms,  milk-fleeced 

'Gainst  ebon  curtain  hanging  in  the  East. 

Display  in  dance  and  tableau,  a  strange  Play; 

With  caves,  grottos,  and  caverns,  coast  and  bay, 

Shifted  in  and  out  'neath  vast  arches  high, 

All  luminous  from  the  battle  in  the  sky. 

Mid-Vale,   thru   rifts   and   wrecks   of  clouds,   bright 

splashed, 

Spot-lights  of  sun  on  forests  green  are  dashed. 
Crag-heads,  like  waves  breasting  a  galley's  prow, 
Successive  gleam,  before  the  Sun's  red  plow. 
Vapors,  like  sheep  huddled  in  morning  fog, 
Frightened,  rise  and  leap,  before  the  Sun-dog. 

Tumult'ous  now,  the  breaches  of  the  fray 

Are  manned  by  Mists  repellent  to  the  Day: 

In  moments,  when  the  foe  upon  the  fort 

Has  swept  the  wall,  and  the  ranked  Clouds  retort, 

With  vast  surges  gray-rolling  o'er  the  top, 

They  weaken  their  lower  slopes,  their  main  prop; 

Tho  massed  in  vict'ry  on  the  mountain's  crest. 

Below,  their  flanks  are  by  the  bright  Rays  prest; 

In  panic,  streamers  of  retreating  Mist 

Flee  'long  low  slopes  from  orbings  beamiest. 

Aghast,  that  all  the  Vale  is  gained  by  Light— 
The  Sun.  victorious,  boasting  his  might; 
Forest,  meadow,  e'en  sky,  in  golden  glow — 
Basking  in  warm  sunshine,  the  depths  below; 
The  angry  Clouds  from  all  the  crests  advance — 
Solid  phalanx,  banners  spread,  shield  and  lance; 

138 


Dreadful,  in  mid-Vale,  the  smoked  concussion — 
'Ruption  of  blazed  Battle's  gored  convulsion; 
Light  and  Shade  alternate  in  desperate  rage — 
Clouds,  shattered,  flee  to  crests,  their  wounds  to  'sauge: 
While  in  the  truce,  as  often  in  fleshed  Life, 
When  foes  reveal  their  beauty  in  the  strife: 
In  this  repose,  a  grandeur  'whelms  the  sight — 
Sublimity!     thy  name  is  Shade  and  Light! 

There  is  a  pause — vast  gatherings  of  fleece 
Pile  purple  with  the  very  depths  of  increase; 
No  longer  can  the  Shade  repel  the  Light — 
Dividing  now  the  sky  with  Day's  beams  bright. 
The  Clouds  conserve  their  forces  till  dark  Night's 
Sable  columns  sweep  allied  o'er  the  heights. 
Content  to  bide  their  time  and  man  the  lists. 
As  single  champions,  the  plumed  Mists 
Give  knightly  jousting  where'er  the  bold  Fire 
Bursts  thru  their  ranks  with  flaming  challenge  dire. 

Tis  then,  grand  Finale,  displayed  sublime, 
Is  seen  on  every  mountain  crag,  the  time 
That  Day  can  with  her  triple  foes  contest: 
The  battling  Clouds  as  they  the  heights  invest — 
Oncoming  Night  invading  every  crest — 
Dark  Erebus  disputing  her  the  West. 
How'er  the  odds,  like  Fortune's  favorite, 
Unconquered  Light  maintains  the  ebbing  fight  - 
The  battle  ends — by  inexor'ble  Fate- 
Sun,  Day,  and  Light,  flee  thru  the  Western  Gate. 

BOBCAT 

j"~*HE  Bobcat,  stealthy  creeper  'long  the  ledge; 

I    Shy  wildcat,  bay  lynx,  peering  o'er  the  edge, 

For  rabbit,  grouse,  squirrel,  small  game,  fresh  food 
Tireless  prowler  of  rock  and  piney  wood. 
When  snow  o'erspreads  the  ground  with  fleecy  white, 
Its  single  track  the  hunters  oft  invite: 
Trail,  hind  paw  perfect  set  in  front  paw's  print, 
Indian  trick,  his  numbers  from  scout's  scent 
Concealed — that  one  lone  file  in  forest  deep, 
Careless  held — from  ambush  many  arrows  leap. 

139 


When  met,  this  wild  cat  like  tame  pussy  seems; 

And  pressed,  raises  back,  snarls,  and  spitting,  screams. 

In  deep  snow  flounders,  wallows,  gains  its  tree, 

Loth  to  leave  'till  snow  melts  or  wind  blows  free. 

The  Bobcat,  relentless  foe  of  small  game; 

Soft-footed  prowler,  bob-tailed,  hence  its  name. 

By  trapper  lured — it  springs  the  fatal  snap 

By  same  game  baited — caught,  in  deadly  trap; 

To  beautify  a  parlor  floor,  this  cat — 

Its  fur,  gleaming  teeth  and  eyes — a  mat. 

ARTIST  AND  POET 

In  early  December,  1913,  there  occurred  in  the  Vale  of  Elkanah 
the  greatest  snow  storm  ever  recorded  by  man  in  that  region;  seven 
feet  of  snow  fell  within  a  week,  and  Dean  Babcock,  a  close  friend  of 
the  Poet's,  was  engaged  at  the  time  in  his  mountain  studio  in  the 
Vale,  upon  a  painting  to  be  shown  at  the  Spring  exhibit  of  the  Den 
ver  Art  Club  in  that  city.  He  was  unable  to  remove  his  canvas  from 
the  region  except  by  packing  it  out  on  snow-shoes  a  distance  of 
eight  miles  to  Estes  Park  village. 

THE  CANVAS 

THERE  is  a  transcendent 
And  immortal  line 
In  Nature;  which,  with 
Conjunctive  grace  divine, 
Is  formed,  where  two 

God-like  elements  incline 
Their  magnifical  shapes 
Into  each  other's  sky, 
And  produce  a  scene 
Of  pure  affinity. 

Thus  the  noble  mountain 

Canvas,  Crag  and  Cloud, 
Product  of  an  artist 

In  modesty  bow'd, 
Displays  this  rare  line; 

Which,  with  perfect  color 
Placed,  enchants  the  eye — 

Mirroring  confessor — 
To  such  congealed  dew 

Of  emotion'd  heart; 
As  to  affirm,  with  ardent 

Glance — This  is  Art! 

140 


The  Poet  stood  before  the 

Work,  with  his  friend, 
The  Artist — and  silent 

Viewed  the  painting  gemmed. 
He  did  not  clasp  his  friend's 

Hand  and  murmur  praise- 
But,  fond  loving  him, 

In  his  clear  eye  did  gaze 
That  warm  esteem,  with  which 

Worshippers  of  art, 
Silent  flood  the  deep  sea 

Caverns  of  the  heart. 

"Dear  friend,"  said  Artist, 

"The  work  of  months  is  done. 
The  problem  now— in  these 

Deep  snows — all  roads  gone; 
Is  guarded,  safe,  and  timely 

Transportation; 
To  insure  presence  at 

The  Exhibition." 
"Friend,  I  volunteer," 

Said  Poet,  loyal,  true, 
"To  assist  you.    Name  day, 

Hour,  and  rendezvous." 

THE  RENDEZVOUS 

The  winter  snows  and  alpine  heights 

Shone  pale  and  ghostly  white, 
Beneath  a  moon  that  splendid  orbed 

Its  lunar  mirror  bright. 
And  by  a  tree  of  yellow  pine 

The  loyal  comrades  met — 
The  Painter,  with  his  cumbrous  pack, 

And,  to  help  him — Poet. 
Upon  the  snow,  two  feet  or  more 

Above  the  frozen  ground, 
Standing  firm  on  broad  snow-shoe  webs, 

Which  they  most  precious  found, 
The  Poet  placed  his  comrade's  goods 

In  his  broad  ample  pack — 
The  Painter  looped  his  canvas 

On  his  own  strong  sturdy  back. 


141 


Twas  early  morn,  just  three  o'clock — 

At  seven  left  the  stage; 
From  that  spot,  eight  snow-bound  wintry 

Miles  away — the  Village. 
With  muscl'ing  limbs  and  snow-shoes  light, 

Led  on  by  full  moon  bright; 
They  launched  themselves  with  straining  packs, 

Into  the  winter  night. 

They  sought  in  that  dim  northern  sky 

A  distant  sentinel  height; 
And  above  that  height  shone  one  lone  star, 

And  above  that  star  hung  Night. 
They  traveled  till  Orion's  beam 

And  the  Dog-star's  sapphire  light, 
Wheeled  past  them  on  the  Milky  Way 

And  soaring  westward  made  their  flight. 
They  traveled  till  the  Morning  Star 

Appeared  with  shining  horn; 
They  traveled  till  the  starry  Night 

Became  the  rosy  Morn. 


THE  JOURNEY 

The  great  peaks  glittered  in  the  moon 

Their  icy  crests  of  blue; 
A  bitter  wind  from  Passes  blear 

Searched  cold  the  valley  thru. 
With  spectral  sweep,  the  sifting  snows 

Sang  low  their  chorus  surged; 
And  mad  gale  roar  from  topmost  heights, 

Swift  the  travelers  urged. 
Amid  the  dark  spruce  aisles, 

They  paced  on  light  empowdered  snows; 
And  snow-drooped  pines,  'mong  weird 

Shadows  black,  stood  in  silent  rows. 
Their  snow-shoes  crunched  the  drifted  dunes 

And  sang  with  wailing  wind; 
The  Painter  leads  the  way  in  steady 

Pace,  and  sure  doth  find. 


142 


Dark  drifting  clouds  now  thickly 

Overspread  the  open  sky. 
The  friendly  moon,  like  vessel  breasting 

Ocean  breakers  high, 
Buries  her  silver  bows  into 

The  ashen  waves  of  cloud, 
And  leaves  the  comrades  groping 

Mid  deep  woods  and  forest  shroud. 
The  wind-bared  rocks  now  couch  'mong  drifts, 

As  stalking  beasts  of  prey; 
And  fleece-hooded  pines,  as  cowled  ghosts, 

Wind-mutter  'long  the  way. 
A  halt  for  breath  and  light — 

A  hasty  cinch  of  snow-shoe  thongs — 
The  comrades,  as  the  moon  clears  clouds, 

Renew  the  trail  with  songs. 

A  great  horned  owl  leaps  from  a  spruce 

And  wings  into  the  wood — 
Startled  by  the  speeding  pair,  from  its 

Night  long  search  for  food. 
A  snow-shoe  rabbit  crosses  path, 

Not  whiter  snow  than  he; 
And  weasel,  white,  in  close  pursuit, 

Darts  after,  'neath  a  tree. 
The  feathers  then  of  ptarmigan — 

A  cruel  tragedy — 
Lie  on  the  snow,  and  with  them, 

The  red  blood  drops  of  the  prey. 
An  owl,  bob-cat,  or  weasel  swift, 

The  sleeping  fowl  has  slain; 
Anon,  they  pass  the  frightened  brood, 

And  see  where  they  have  lain. 

The  upper  lake  now  comes  in  view, 

And  with  it  comes — the  wind. 
The  Poet  here  swings  in  the  lead, 

And  gropes  his  way  to  find, 
For  mocking  swoons  of  eddying  snows 

Fill  his  beard  and  eyes; 
And  weird  above  the  howling  gale 

Resound  the  screech-owl's  cries. 


143 


'Twas  then  they  heard  along  the  shore 

A  wild  outlandish  sound. 
In  blanching  fear  they  stopped  to  list — 

It  was  the  whooping  pond. 
A  skulking  wolf  'mong  shoreward  pines 

They  saw,  and  hurried  on; 
Past  the  beaver's  ice-bound  hut 

That  pale  on  shone  the  moon. 

The  narrow  gorge  then  portaled  near, 

Where  flows  the  lake's  outlet; 
Frozen  now  in  ice  cascade,  and  deep 

Laid  with  drifts  o'erswept. 
The  Painter  here,  with  anxious  care, 

Treads  soft  the  bristl'ing  crags. 
A  slip — a  fall  among  the  treach'rous  rocks- 
Ripped,  his  canvas  jags. 
Here,  ice-crusted  drifts,  wind-moulded 

Firm — sleek,  and  hard  to  grip, 
Gives  deep  concern  to  the  comrades, 

And  snow-shoes  give  and  slip. 
Then  close,  where  pines  barely  cling 

To  the  steep  sheer  prec'pice  walls, 
The  moon,  at  that  tense  moment, 

Behind  the  mountain  falls. 

"Dear  comrade,  are  you  safe  and  firm — 

Be  careful  at  the  turn;" 
The  Poet  calls  to  Artist  friend, 

In  keenest  deep  concern. 
"All's  well — See!     The  moon,  just  set, 

Fades,  that  we  may  see  the  day;" 
Tjie  panting  Painter  says,  as  he 

Slow  downward  makes  his  way. 
"Oh!     Joy — 'tis  true,"  the  Poet  cries, 

As  East  breaks  dim  in  gray; 
And  forward — reinvigored  now, 

They  snow-shoe  fast  and  gay. 
The  gorge  widens — the  path  is  broad, 

And  aspens  fringe  the  road; 
A  moment  here  in  the  open 

They  ease  their  heavy  load. 


144 


The  meadow  stretch,  toward  lower  lake, 

Swiftly  now  they  pace; 
And  across  broad  sweeps  of  scraggly 

Wood,  they  eager  race. 
A  chickadee  and  nuthatch  flock, 

Here  greet  the  pale  Morn  gray. 
A  shaft  of  blue  'cross  field  of  snow, 

Reveals  the  wakened  jay. 
The  wind  again  assails,  as  they  edge 

Shore  of  lower  lake; 
But  cheered  by  breaking  day,  they 

Fast  and  furious  course  take; 
And  gaze  with  hasty  eyes  on  bighorn 

Ram,  on  further  shore; 
Who,  grazing  in  wind-cleared  spot, 

Views  their  presence  calmly  o'er. 

Far  down  the  river,  'mid  the  pines, 

The  Village  comes  in  view; 
The  Painter  leads,  with  strict  eye 

On  his  faithful  timing  watch — 
And,  with  'suring  smile  on  Poet, 

Declares  the  stage  they'll  catch. 
Then  forward  crunch  the  webbing  shoes 

'Neath  Morning's  rosy  hue. 
The  village  inn  they  quickly  reach 

And  doff  the  webs  with  sighs; 
Before  them  smokes  the  breakfast 

Which  they  greet  with  hungry  eyes. 
The  snow  crunch  of  the  bob-sled  stage 

Is  heard  soon  at  the  door. 
A  fond  goodbye  of  comrades  true — 

The  snow-shoe  journey's  o'er. 

The  Poet  then,  soft  visioning, 

Rehearsed  the  journey  o'er. 
He  called  to  mind  their  starting 

In  the  winter  night's  deep  hour. 
The  snow-bound  saintly  beauty  of 

The  glist'ning  moon-gleamed  heights, 
Long  haunts  his  dreaming  fancy 

And  again  his  strain  invites: 


145 


They  sought  in  that  dim  northern  sky 

A  distant  sentinel  height; 
And  above  that  height  shone  one  lone  star, 

And  above  that  star  hung  Night. 
They  traveled  till  Orion's  beam 

And  the  Dog-star's  sapphire  light 
Wheeled  past  them  on  the  Milky  Way 

And  soaring  westward  made  their  flight. 
They  traveled  till  the  Morning  Star 

Appeared  with  shining  horn; 
They  traveled  till  the  starry  Night 

Became  the  rosy  Morn. 

FRIENDSHIP 

There  is  a  Being,  who,  like  some  great  Mountain, 
High  uplifted — first  and  last  to  greet  the  Sun; 
Wins  and  holds — first  and  last,  and  to  the  End, 
Our  fond  regard,  whate'er  the  Years  portend — 

Our  Friend. 

You  brought  us  a  gracious  Presence,  Friend. 
A  virtuous,  serene,  benificent  one; 
An  Image  radiant  of  Love  and  Truth — 
Creation  lovely,  of  the  Holy  One: 
A  Light,  shining,  as  a  cape-reared  Beacon, 
Showing  seamen  a  safe  and  pleasant  Shore; 
Bright  glances  of  a  high,  assuring  Soul, 
Beaming  love  thru  a  warm  Heart's  open  Door. 
Friend!    We  revere,  cherish,  and  adore  You, 
In  Earth,  Heaven,  now,  and  forever  more. 


There  is  a  Being,  who,  like  some  great  Mountain, 
High  uplifted — first  and  last  to  greet  the  Sun; 
Wins  and  holds — first  and  last,  and  to  the  End, 
Our  fond  regard,  whate'er  the  Years  portend. 
To  Him,  our  hand  and  heart  their  warmth  extend; 
To  Him,  loved  Soul,  our  Pledge — Love  without  end — 
Our  Friend! 


YE  COOL  MIST  OF  THE  VALLEY 

YE  cool  Mist  of  the  Valley,  soft  stealing — 
Welcome  visitor  from  the  lowland  Plains; 
Entering  our  gates  with  Morning  'freshment — 
Oft  spreading  your  gentle  vaporous  rains. 
Thou,  a  fair  embracement — your  clinging  arms 
Reaching  up  the  shoulders  of  the  Mountain, 
Pressing  your  fragrant  kisses  on  its  brow; 
Nestling  in  its  hollows — airy  Fountain — 
Your  bosoms  swelling  bulbous,  milk-white  dew 
Streamed  warm  and  sweet,  as  from  the  uddered  ewe. 

Ye  cool  Mist  of  the  Valley,  damp  curling — 

Washing  the  vaulted  Temple  of  the  Skies — 

Dome  of  the  Empyrean;  clean  wiping 

The  ceilings  of  the  Blue  Immensities. 

On  the  floor  below,  meadow,  forest,  moor; 

Where  aisled  streams  and  path'd  rivulets  pour, 

Your  gossamer  skirtings  and  fairy  feet 

All  adored  are,  by  Flower's  verdured  greet, 

As  they  revive  from  fires  of  yester's  heat, 

When  o'er  them  spreads  your  dew  empearled  sheet. 

Ye  cool  Mist  of  the  Valley,  now  trembling — 
Thou  to  become  the  victim  of  the  Sun; 
Who  soon  in  fiery  splendor  from  the  East, 
Reaches— you  fleeing  his  am'rous  summon. 
All  too  great  the  dread  power  of  his  rays — 
No  refuge  thine,  to  'lude  his  passioned  blaze; 
From  height,  from  hollow,  canon  deep,  and  lake — 
By  force,  what  other's  would  more  gently  take, 
He  lifts,  by  violence  torn,  from  mid-air, 
Your  white  form  fainting,  to  his  golden  car. 

147 


The  Big  Owl  of  Big  Owl  Hill  is  a  subject  both  interesting  and 
romantic  to  the  dwellers  in  the  Vale  of  Elkanah.  It  was  discovered, 
as  the  poem  describes,  in  1907,  by  the  Poet  himself,  on  the  after 
noon  of  an  early  fall  day  as  he  was  locating  his  homestead  in  the 
south  end  of  the  Vale;  which  tract,  however,  did  not  include  the  Big 
Owl's  domain,  but  which  locality  was  subsequently  patented  as  a 
homestead  by  Miss  Katherine  Garetson. 

It  is  believed  that,  at  this  writing,  1921,  there  are  at  least  two 
pairs  of  these  birds  in  the  Vale,  their  species  being  the  Western 
horned  owl,  large  magnificent  nocturnal  fowls  whose  low  soft  notes  are 
the  invariable  accompaniment  of  every  quiet  evening. 

Starting  at  dusk  from  their  home  on  Big  Owl  Hill  they  seem  to 
gradually  approach  the  uppermost  parts  of  the  Vale  as  evidenced  by 
their  call  being  heard  by  the  settlers  in  those  parts.  A  favorite 
haunt  of  their's  is  the  yellow-pine  slopes  along  the  foot  of  the  Twin 
Sisters  north  to  Lamb's  Notch  thence  west  to  the  base  of  Estes  Cone. 
They  are  often  observed  by  visitors. 

BIG  OWL  OF  BIG  OWL  HILL 

F^HE  Great  Horned  Owl  is  a  most  ancient  fowl 
\        And  lordly  he  dwells  on  a  noble  hill, 

O'erlooking  the  Vale  on  a  well  worn  trail 
Where  the  lodge-poles  border  Fawn  Creek's  rill. 

An  early  settler  found  him  perching  there 

In  a  yellow-pine  tree  in  afternoon; 
A  taking  his  nap  thru  a  warm  Fall  day 

To  awake  at  dusk  to  greet  the  young  moon. 

Both  were  startled,  the  intruder  stepped  back; 

The  Big  Owl  stared  fierce,  expecting  attack. 
But  with  a  pleased  laugh,  the  settler  began 

To  talk  to  Big  Owl,  make  him  understand, 
That  neighbors  they'd  be  of  friendliest  kind 

And  to  not  be  cross  or  peevish  fault  find 
Because  new  dweller  had  come  to  the  land — 

Like  itself,  attracted  by  mountains  grand. 

The  Big  Owl  boldly  glared  and  frowned  fierce  yet, 
And  ne'er  can  the  happy  settler  forget, 

That  at  last  the  fowl  closed  his  blinking  eyes, 
As  tho  it  understood,  was  wholly  wise, 

To  the  speech  of  friendship  that  then  was  made; 
That  all  was  at  peace  in  the  Big  Owl's  glade. 

Then  long  years  passed,  when  a  dear  daring  dame, 
Homesteaded  the  glade  of  the  Big  Owl's  fame; 

148 


And  the  hill  where  he  lived  now  bears  his  name — 
Big  Owl — which  settler  called  when  he  first  came. 

And  the  great  horned  fowl  lives  in  the  same  tree 
It  did  when  settler  found  him  formerly. 

Since  then,  fond  association  has  sprung 

Among  the  folks  of  the  Vale,  cherishing 
This  family  of  owls  who  live  on  the  Hill; 

Whose  harmony  lends  to  quiet  Evening 
Affinities  sweet  of  musing  fancy — 

Green  woods,  fairy  forms,  the  awakened  Moon; 
Frolic  of  gnomes,  elves,  and  lover's  fond  trysts — 

Nocturnal  world  woke  by  Owl's  mystic  tune. 

Oh!     Dear  notes,  which  summon  dream  reveries 

'Mong  tall  pines  and  shadows  of  dark'ning  woods; 
Hearts  feeling  the  spell  of  innocent  loves 

Of  soft  June  nights  spent  'mid  moonlight  floods. 
And  when — emerging  from  grove  on  some  ledge, 

Summit  upraised,  view  commanding  the  West; 
To  gaze  on  the  splendor  of  snowy  alps 

Which  the  Moon,  effulgent,  doth  warm  invest, 
With  beamy  waves  of  lunar  loveliness, 

Bathing  in  beauty  each  sentinel  crest. 
Ah!     Owl's  song,  June  moon,  pines,  great  mountain 
peaks — 

Who  to  the  heart  more  bewitchingly  speaks? 

BEAUTIFUL  DAYS  SHINE  ON 

BEAUTIFUL  Days  shine  on, 
Nor  let  your  smilings  cease. 
To  vesper'd  Eves  sweep  on, 
Bringing  their  moonlit  peace. 

Into  my  heart  beam  Love, 

That  I  may  be  most  fair. 
Into  my  soul,  above, 

Gleam  Truth — that  I  may  dare. 

Into  the  Vales  of  Eden, 

Shine,  ye  Orient  Suns. 
Into  the  Gloams  of  Even, 

Stream,  ye  Hesper'an  Moons. 

149 


Beautiful  Days  shine  on, 
Nor  let  your  smilings  cease. 

To  vesper 'd  Eves  sweep  on, 
Bringing  their  moonlit  peace. 

PARTING 

OH!    How  can  I  leave  you — 
How  can  I  part? 
Oh!    How  can  I  leave  you, 
Love  of  my  heart? 
For  together  we've  wandered 

Among  these  sweet  wilds. 

Oh!     How  can  I  leave  you — 

Depart  from  your  smiles! 

The  red  sun  has  set 

On  the  crags  we  have  roamed. 
The  bright  moon  is  rising 

On  heights  we  have  gloamed. 
The  song  of  the  night  thrush 

From  yon  sleeping  wood, 
Must  bring  to  thy  mind 

The  green  spot  where  we  wooed. 

It  must  be  that  I  loved  you 

Far  more  than  I  knew. 
Else  how  would  it  pain  me 

To  thus  part  from  you. 
Each  loved  charm  of  the  Vale 

Will  sweet  vision  thy  face. 
How  softly  I'll  linger 

By  each  sequester'd  place. 

Oh!     Promise  you*  11  meet  me, 

Should  death  ever  us  part; 
Oh!     Promise  you'll  greet  me, 

Tend'rest  joy  of  my  heart — 
On  Eden's  bright  mountains 

In  valleys  of  Love. 
Oh!     Promise  you'll  meet  me 

In  Heaven  above. 

150 


WHEN  WE  DANCED  AMONG  THE  PINES 

WHEN  the  Moon  rose  o'er  the  Mountain 
And  the  crickets  tuned  their  viols; 
When  we  heard  the  nocturne  strain 
Of  the  owls  in  forest  aisles; 
Then  we  gathered,  gay  and  festive, 

About  our  Woodland  shrines  — 

Then  we  clasped  our  hands  together 

As  we  danced  among  the  Pines. 

When  the  Moon  rose  o'er  the  Mountain 

And  kissed  soft  the  lips  of  Night; 
Then  all  the  sylvan  bowers 

Lit  with  fairy  candles  bright; 
Then  the  elves  and  gnomes  danced  with  us, 

About  our  Woodland  shrines, 
And  the  Moonbeams  swung  their  lanterns 

As  we  danced  among  the  Pines. 

NOW  COMES  THE  SHIVER  OF  THE  STORM 

NOW  comes  the  shiver  of  the  storm; 
The  cattle  turn  their  backs  to  pelting  rain; 
The  birds  scurry  to  shelt'ring  woods  — 
Softly  the  pine  trees  sough  wintry  again. 

Now  comes  the  shiver  of  the  storm; 

Its  mist-  white  breath  steals  damp  o'er  the  brown  moor; 
Withered  herbage,  sod  and  flowers, 

Renew  their  green  upon  the  pasture  floor. 

Now  comes  the  shiver  of  the  storm; 

Cold  douchings  spray  and  chill  the  standing  grain; 
Slow  the  rain  cloud  fades  from  the  land  — 

Tis  o'er,  sun  steams  the  earth  to  warmth  again. 

COYOTES  AND  MAGPIES 


Magpie,  beautiful,  yet  brutal  crow; 
In  Summer,  nesting  cottonwoods  below. 
In  Winter,  seeking  the  mid-Oberland, 
Fleeing  from  foes  in  the  lower  Plainsland; 


151 


Where,  as  an  enemy,  man  seeks  its  life — 
Oft  accused  of  crimes  and  pestilent  strife; 
But  here  in  the  Oberland,  winging  free, 
With  far  settler  dwells,  in  safe  company. 

In  Fall  'tis  the  companion  of  Coyote, 

The  prairie  wolf  breed  that  runs  the  East  Slope. 

Together  they  track  the  journeying  herds 

Going  east  to  the  Plains  with  the  summer  birds. 

When  carrion  they  find,  dead  calf  or  steer, 

On  either  side  these  two  scavengers  peer 

At  each  other  o'er  the  decaying  form, 

Then  with  beak,  claw,  and  teeth,  defying  storm, 

They  feast  and  glut  'till  the  last  shred  is  torn; 

Naught  left  but  the  bones  to  the  maggot,  worn. 

For  months,  the  coyotes  tread,  magpies  o'erhead, 

Flying  scouts,  both  trailing  the  straying  dead; 

Over  hill,  down  gulch,  o'er  flat,  past  salt-lick, 

The  hoofs  of  the  cattle,  dying  or  sick; 

Coyote  and  crow  devouring  insatiate — 

True  to  their  office,  scavengers  innate. 

A  pack  of  Coyotes,  dread  ghouls  of  the  hills, 

Attacking  the  dead  with  exultant  yells. 

A  flock  of  Magpies,  varigated  cloud 

Covering  carcass  foul — lustrating  shroud. 

When  the  hills  are  thus  scoured,  lazy  they  go, 
The  Wolf  to  its  den — Magpie  winging  slow, 
Seeking  morsels  from  settler,  near  his  door; 
Occasionally  scouting  country  o'er 
For  the  corpse  of  the  big-horn,  elk,  or  deer; 
If  found,  calling  wolf  for  beastial  cheer. 
Sedate,  oft  times;  strutting,  satisfied  mood; 
Talking,  addressing  birds  of  other  brood. 
Perched,  will  chatter  gossip  as  it  pecks  bone; 
Sociable,  disliking  to  be  alone — 
The  Magpie,  beautiful,  beastial  crow; 
Feasting  on  Death — its  joy,  another's  woe. 
The  Coyote,  companion  of  crow,  seeking  flesh; 
The  ghoul  and  the  wolf  of  the  lone  wilderness. 


152 


THE  STEPPIN'  STANES  0'  CABIN  CREEK 


A  MA  ID  I  saw  one  sunny  day 
The  other  side  the  stream; 
She  raised  her  skirt  most  daintily 
And  stepped  the  rocks  abrim. 
I  could  not  help  but  look  into 

The  water's  glossy  sheen, 
And  saw  upon  their  mirrored  tide 

The  beauty  o'  her  limb. 
Aye — The  steppin'  stanes  o'  Cabin  Creek — 

They  make  a  pretty  scene; 
Around  them  flows  the  gurgling  brook, 
With,  aye — ripples  bright  between. 

Amid  the  stanes  sore  hesitate 

I  saw  her  sudden  tossed; 
In  holdin'  tight  her  bonny  skirt 

Her  balance  quite  she'd  lost. 
I  jumped  into  the  torrent's  flood 

And  caught  her  as  she  paused; 
She  dropped  her  skirt  and  clasped  me  fast 

As  o'er  the  stream  I  crossed. 
Aye — The  steppin'  stanes  o'  Cabin  Creek — 

They  make  a  pretty  scene; 
Around  them  flows  the  gurgling  brook, 

With,  aye — ripples  bright  between. 

On  hither  bank  I  set  her  down 

Amang  the  marigolds. 
Her  bonny  skirt  ne'er  wrinkled  was, 

Nor  mussed  its  dainty  folds. 
With  winsome  mien  she  beamed  on  me — 

I  stood  in  soggy  shoes — 
Then,  reaching  up,  she  kissed  me  sweet, 

For  ferry's  honest  dues. 
Aye — The  steppin'  stanes  o'  Cabin  Creek — 

They  make  a  pretty  scene; 
Around  them  flows  the  gurgling  brook, 

With,  aye — ripples  bright  between. 


153 


WHEN  THE  BLACKBIRDS  TO  THE  MARSHES 
COME 

WHEN  the  blackbirds  to  the  marshes  come, 
Settling  'mong  the  reeds  with  noisy  hum; 
And  all  about  the  beaver's  pond 
The  drifts  of  winter  still  abound; 
'Tis  then  waking  Spring  smiles  blithely  winsome — 

To  our  arms  we  take  her  tender  bosom; 
Gently  press  the  loving  kiss  of  welcome — 
As  all  the  land  in  gladness  calls  her  home, 
When  the  blackbirds  to  the  marshes  come. 

When  the  blackbirds  to  the  marshes  come, 
And  on  the  dead  spruce,  gay  flicker's  drum 

Tattoos  breezy  west-wind's  dulcet  thrum, 

As  bold  March  strikes  in  his  sun-warmed  thumb; 

Tis  then  the  willow,  'fore  the  gusty  spoom, 
Bursts  its  bloom  for  Spring — her  earliest  plume, 

Silver  silken  spray  of  shining  welcome — 
And  all  the  land  in  gladness  calls  her  home, 
When  the  blackbirds  to  the  marshes  come. 


154 


CHIEF'S  HEAD  FROM  ALLENS  PARK 


The  sculptured  mountain,  Chiefs  Head,  as  seen  from  Aliens  Park, 
and  its  attendant  recumbent  form  called  "The  Sleeping  Indian," 
which  includes  the  Longs  Peak  mass  terminating  with  Esies  Cone,  is 
probably  the  greatest  piece  of  natural  sculpturing  and  gigantic 
grouping  of  staturesque  form  to  be  seen  in  the  United  States,  and  is 
also,  undoubtedly,  the  most  appropriate,  since  it  outlines  with  re 
markable  resemblance,  the  face  of  an  Algonquin-featured  Indian 
with  his  war-bonnet  on,  thus  perpetuating  the  memory  of  the 
original  inhabitant  of  America  in  his  proudest  regalia,  his  prized 
eagle-feathered  headgear.  The  vast  profile  of  this  face  gazes  upward 
into  the  sky,  and  the  form,  lying  in  calm  and  restful  posture,  is  out 
lined  upon  the  crests  of  the  mountains  stretching  to  the  northeast; 
with  a  wide  sweep  of  the  great  forest  below  timberline  on  Mi.  Meeker, 
composing  the  blanket  covering.  It  is  a  most  stupendous  ensemble 
of  mountain,  wonderfully  suggestive  of  the  subject  which  the  settlers 
of  Aliens  Park  have  applied  to  it. 

T  0 —  the  Great  Sachem  of  the  high  St.  Vrain, 
!        Rears  his  profile  of  eminent  domain; 

Chiefs  Head,  Algonquin-featured,  feathered  crest, 
Appears  in  the  skyline  of  the  northwest. 
Projected  too,  recumbent,  sleeping  form — 
Reposed,  against  the  blizzard  and  the  storm; 
Pagoda,  Meeker,  Battle,  Estes  Cone, 
Great  peaks,  composing  his  broad  couchant  throne. 
Wide  forests,  warp  and  woof  of  pine-spread  miles, 
All  wrinkled,  folded,  in  the  deep  defiles, 
These  weave  the  blanket  of  the  god-like  Chief: 
Mysterious  figure  in  bold  relief, 
Forever  sleeping  on  the  Nation's  crest, 
Of  race  long  departed — tribe  earliest — 
Yet  lives  in  stone,  mountain  range,  sculptured  vast; 
Form  carved  in  granite  upon  the  Continent's  breast — 
Stamped  imperishable  on  the  summits  of  the  West. 

The  Pyramids  of  Cheops,  ancient,  old — 

The  Sphinx,  staring  from  the  sand,  silent,  cold; 

Sequoia  woods  of  sixty  centuries — 

All  things  of  man,  or  oldest,  living  trees, 

Must  bow  in  awe  before  this  hoary  frieze, 

Which  Time,  alone,  has  fashioned  with  its  breeze. 

How  oft,  'mid  roaring  tempest  or  bright  sun, 

I've  gazed  upon  thy  visage,  Mighty  One. 

155 


Howe'er  the  white  man  may  o'er  rule  the  Earth — 
May  subdue  the  home  land  that  gave  thee  birth; 
Yet,  forever,  Image  carved  of  Manitou, 
Thy  memory  will  command  the  Western  view; 
At  the  Portals  of  the  free  and  boundless  Sky, 
Great  Mountain,  uplift  the  Face  that  cannot  die! 


VESPERADO 

WHEN  the  shades  of  dusk  creep  o'er  the  land, 
As  the  sun  droops  low  on  the  Western  strand; 
In  those  regions  dim  where  the  corals  band — 
By  the  green  palms  down  on  the  twilight  sand; 
From  there  I  shall  fly  where  the  Vespers  go, 

Where  the  streams  of  the  sea  are  soft  aflow; 
Down  in  the  beds  of  the  afterglow — 
There  to  the  arms  of  Vesperado. 

Oh,  fairest  maid  of  the  calling  West. 

Thou  with  the  sweet  and  the  fragrant  breast — 

Thou  with  the  charms  of  eternal  rest; 
Thou  with  the  limbs  which  the  sea  nymphs  have  drest — 
Thou  with  those  lips  that  the  gods  have  prest; 
With  thee  I'll  lie  in  the  Sun's  red  nest — 
Vesperado! 

Down  where  the  Sun  goes  at  eventide 

And  hides  till  he  opens  the  Morning  wide; 
In  those  valleys  far  where  the  trade  winds  blow, 

Down  where  his  golden  chariot  swings  low; 
There  my  soul  shall  rest  in  that  rosy  deep 

Till  the  god  awakes  from  his  sea-hid  sleep; 
There  in  the  heart  of  the  sunset  glow — 

There  in  the  arms  of  Vesperado. 

Oh,  fairest  maid  of  the  calling  West. 

Thou  with  the  sweet  and  fragrant  breast — 
Thou  with  the  charms  of  eternal  rest; 
Thou  with  the  limbs  which  the  sea  nymphs  have  drest — 
Thou  with  those  lips  that  the  gods  have  prest; 
With  thee  I'll  lie  in  the  Sun's  red  nest — 
Vesperado! 

156 


MOTHER'S  KISSES 
To  Steve 

'  I  ^HERE  is  a  Guide,  who,  oft  returning— 

J        Cresting  Pass  above  the  Vale; 
Where  far  below  the  lanterns  beckon 

His  return  from  off  the  Trail. 
'Tis  then  he  feels  a  soft  embracing — 

Checks  his  steed,  to  feel  the  breeze, 
So  gently  stealing  o'er  the  mountain, 

Stirring  low  the  forest  leaves. 

Mountain  zephyrs — Mother's  kisses — 
Wafted  from  the  Spirit  strand. 
Soft  caresses — Mother  presses 

Her  sweet  lips  on  brow  and  hand, 
Of  the  son  that  once  she  cradled 

On  her  breast  in  Bye-Low  land. 

Oft  his  party  slow  their  horses — 

String  them  out  along  the  Trail, 
As  he  points  out  the  distant  lanterns 

Of  the  home  cot  in  the  Vale. 
But  do  they  see  the  tear-drop  welling — 

Feel  Mother's  greeting  on  the  crest? 
Do  they  ken  the  South-land  zephyr 

On  the  Guide's  lips  gently  prest? 

"Yes,  Mother,  dear — I'm  coming  home," 

Guide  murmurs,  as  he  speeds  the  band. 
The  horses  start  with  vim  and  vigor 

On  the  Home  Trail  thru  the  land. 
Then  deep  into  the  forest  dark 

Toward  the  cottage  in  the  Vale, 
With  just  the  far  off  stars  to  twinkle 

Till  the  lanterns  end  the  Trail. 

Soft  caresses — Mother's  kisses — 

From  the  steps  where  she  used  to  stand, 
Greeting  tenderly  her  son, 
Ere  she  passed  to  Beulah  Land. 
Mountain  zephyrs — Mother's  kisses — 
Still  press'd  upon  his  brow  and  hand. 


157 


ACROSS  THE  RANGE  TO  HOME  SWEET  HOME 

WE  have  crossed  the  lofty  Passes— 
Nearly  touched  the  turquoise  sky; 
We  are  wet  from  wading  waters 
Where  we  lunched,  the  torrent  by. 
Our  lips  are  red  with  wayside  fruit 

And  flowers  fill  our  arms; 
Ah!     Summer's  dear  excursion  sweet 
'Mong  flow'ry  mountain  charms. 

Yet  glad  a  song  rings  in  our  souls 

And  visions  rise  apace — 
Where  tired  feet  and  weary  limbs 

Shall  find  a  resting  place: 
So  lift  your  voice  and  sing  that  song, 

As  among  the  peaks  we  roam — 
We're  on  our  way  across  the  Range 

To  the  hearth  of  home  sweet  home. 

We've  rowed  upon  the  alpine  lake 

Amid  the  forest  wide; 
We've  romped  across  the  glaciers  cold 

On  top  the  Great  Divide. 
We've  wandered  'mid  the  leafy  woods, 

The  trails  of  glade  and  park; 
We've  tumbled  in  the  waterfalls — 

Thrown  snowballs  for  a  lark. 

Yet  swells  that  song  its  happy  strain 

And  helps  the  miles  speed  by. 
We'll  sing  it  on  the  shining  hills 

While  still  the  sun  is  high: 
So  lift  your  voice  and  sing  that  song, 

As  among  the  peaks  we  roam — 
We're  on  our  way  across  the  Range 

To  the  hearth  of  home  sweet  home. 

Our  catch  of  trout  is  in  the  pack 

And  quarts  of  berries  ripe; 
And  pretty  stones  and  mosses  rare 

We've  gleaned  of  every  type. 

158 


A  distant  peak  now  looms  in  sight 
Which  marks  our  homeward  quest, 

And  fond  anticipations  bright 
Hold  forth  the  meal  and  rest. 

Yet  runs  that  loved  endearing  line 

As  setting  sun  sinks  low; 
It  cheers  the  homeward  trotting  steeds 

As  soft  the  moonbeams  glow. 
So  lift  your  voice  and  sing  that  song, 

As  among  the  peaks  we  roam — 
We're  on  our  way  across  the  Range 

To  the  hearth  of  home  sweet  home. 


159 


BELOVED,  I  SHALL  FLOWER 


WHEN  you  saw  me  in  my  poor  youth  untried, 
My  virgin  strength  unknown, 
You  turned  aside  to  other  hearts; 
I  grieved  forlorn,  unseen,  alone. 
Yet  such  a  love  I  bore  to  you, 

A  wealth  your  bosom  never  knew; 
A  treasure  then,  your  own  fair  bower; 
I  told  you — tho  you  heard  me  not — 
Beloved,  I  shall  flower. 

I  spent  the  lonely  years  in  search  and  toil — 

I  reached  the  long  sought  goal; 
I  mastered  all  the  ways  of  World, 

Yet  kept  within,  my  pure  born  soul. 
And  in  that  soul  you  still  were  mine — 

My  only  love — that  treasure,  thine; 
Yet,  past  my  utmost  strength  and  power, 

Tho  I  told  you — you  still  forgot — 

Beloved,  I  shall  flower. 

Then  came  the  years  of  knowledge  plain; 

When  then  you  saw,  and  seeing — knew: 
When  you  viewed  the  husks  of  living 

Which  wasted  years  had  brought  to  you. 
Then  all  too  late  you  sought  the  prize 

With  charms  still  fresh,  to  realize, 
That  you  had  too  long  deferred — 

For  I  had  gone  on — tho  still  you  sought — 

Beloved,  I  had  flowered. 

Oh!     Blessed  truth,  the  shield  of  youth; 

Protecting  fond  the  innocent  heart, 
Which  beats  in  vain  for  that  Earth  love 

Which  Fate  has  fixed,  as  God's,  apart. 
Then  is  told  the  saintly  tale — 

A  lone  soul  lifted  above  Earth's  vale, 
Knows  its  one  love  is  God's  dower; 

From  the  first  held — tho  it  knew  not — 

For  Him,  Love's  fairest  flower. 

160 


ABOVE  TIMBERLINE 

.BOVE  Timberline— the  Home  of  the  Gods! 

Their    Throne    above    the    World— above    the 

Crowds; 

Their  Palace  fair  of  undefiled  Clouds — 
Salute  them,  as  you  enter  their  abodes. 
Few  souls  appreciate  this  sky-reared  Height, 
Bleak,  bare,  austere — yet  thrust  so  far  in  Light 
Toward  God,  that  Sun's  first  and  last  Glories  bright 
Reign  longest  there,  most  constant  'bove  the  Night. 
Yea!     Few,  indeed,  those  souls,  that  e'en  of  Life 
Know  ought  but  frauding  Mammon's  dupe  and  strife 

Above  Timberline!     How  oft  those  high  slopes 
I've  walked  and  never  once  betrayed — my  hopes 
Of  finding  manna — treasure  of  the  Gods; 
No  Child  of  Song  e'er  here,  theme-silent,  plods. 
'Mong  the  rocks  are  blooms  so  exquisite  gemmed 
That  World  below  ne'er  viewed  such  beauty  stemmed. 
Abroad  are  vistas — 'bove  the  works  of  Man; 
Lustrous,  all  unsmoked,  Heaven's  arches  span. 
No  sounds  are  heard — but  holy  Solitude 
Extends  a  Calm  in  which  the  Raptures  brood. 

Above  Timberline!     Climb  on,  my  Soul!     Thou, 
Who  never  yet  hath  shrunk  the  Hero's  vow. 
Ascend,  Thou — on  to  Glory  and  to  God, 
Unblanched  with  Fear — undaunted,  You,  abroad 
Those  Crests  of  undimmed  Light— the  shining  Truth. 
As  long  as  Love,  immortal,  has  its  youth — 
So  far  as  body,  bowed;  head,  bald  and  gray, 
Responds  to  the  summons  of  Earth's  brief  Day, 
Upon  the  Heights  sublime,  I'll  take  my  way — 
Above  the  World,  I'll  woo  Divinity! 

ART 

I  HAD  loved  her  from  the  first— 
Upon  her  I  had  lavished  all. 
And  at  times — in  wonderful  moments- 
Transfixed  by  her  perfect  beauty, 
I,  having  lavished  all, 
Wept,  that  I  had  not  more. 

161 


Alone,  I  had  crept  into  the  firelight — 

The  warm  golden  glow  of  my  hearth — 

The  one  comfort  of  my  rude  mountain  hut. 

And  I  had  long  sat  in  my  chair,  quietly  musing; 

I — a  broken,  bald,  shaking  old  man. 

And  I  was  not  unhappy,  but  rather — blissful; 

Like  a  long  day  ending  in  sweet  evening. 

Youth,  I  had  given  her;  . 

Fervid,  athletic,  flushed — beautiful. 

Manhood,  I  had  given  her; 

Stalwart,  strong,  sanguine — powerful. 

Middle-age,  I  had  given  her; 

Still  active,  persistent,  mature — resourceful. 

And  now — this  last  flickering  flame — 

Old  age,  contemplative,  meek,  prayerful: 

I  was  wondering  how  best  to  spend  it  on  her, 

These  last  few  coins  of  a  broken  fortune — faithful. 

And  as  I  sat  thus,  silently  pondering; 

Gazing  profoundly  into  the  red  flames  of  my  hearth; 

I  suddenly  saw  a  face  confronting  mine, 

Of  a  beauty — an  expression  so  divine — 

That  I  dared  not  ask  its  name 

For  fear  that  Thou,  alone, 

Had  sired  it,  Father,  mine. 

As  it  neared  me,  I  shrank  back, 

As  I've  been  wont  to  do  since  first  I  loved  her; 

For  she  had  seemed  so  far  beyond  me, 

That  I  had  wooed  blindly — without  hope. 

No  word  spake  she — 

But  with  quivering  lips  so  charged  with  passion, 

That  my  poor,  frail  soul 

Burst  into  flames  of  warmest  rose, 

She  pressed  them  full  on  mine 

And  left  their  imprint  so  gloriously  there, 

That,  dying,  I  shall  feel  them  lift  me 

From  the  cold  corse  and  waft  me  heavenward. 

This — this  was  my  Beautiful,  my  Bride — Art! 
I — her  lover,  had  won,  at  last,  her  heart! 

162 


I  DID  NOT  KNOW  THAT  LIPS  COULD  PART 
IN  SUCH  A  LOVELY  SMILE 

r  I  ^HOSE  charms  which  Diotima's  beauty  played, 
I    When  Socrates  of  Athens,  she,  love  swayed; 

Beholding  powers  of  Beauty  displayed, 
Causing  Desire  to  clasp  those  forms  portrayed; 
Came  to  me  sudden,  when  a  woman's  face 
Confronted  mine — all  lit  with  Eva's  grace: 
Ah!     I  did  not  know  that  lips  could  part 
In  such  a  lovely  smile! 

'Twas  then  I  understood  the  Law 

Of  Diotima's  wile; 
Beauty  is  a  divine  thing  that 

Resistless  will  beguile — 
If  your  embrace  is  not  guilty 

Your  love  cannot  be  vile. 
Beauty  is  the  Great  Attraction — 

The  Universal  Smile; 
Dear  Nature  rules  the  World  with  it, 

All  Life  to  reconcile. 
Ah!     I've  lingered  in  that  beauty — 

I'll  linger  long  the  while; 
I  did  not  know  that  lips  could  part 

In  such  a  lovely  smile! 

MOTHER 

OUTSIDE  the  window  whirls  the  white— 
'Tis  winter's  snow  most  bleak. 
The  storm  in  awful  surges  rolls 
In  fury  from  the  Peak. 
Yet  in  Mother's  old  log  cabin, 

Built  by  her  loving  sons, 
An  old  man  sits  before  the  hearth — in 
It's  flame  his  vision  runs. 

4'0h,  Mother,  dear,  you're  here  tonight — 

I'm  nestled  in  your  arms. 
The  world  has  vanished  from  my  sight — 

The  storm  has  no  alarms. 

163 


You're  lifted  up  in  Heaven's  light, 

Before  the  Throne  of  Grace; 
And  God,  Himself,  compassionate, 

Reveals  again  your  face. 

I'm  gray  and  wrinkled  deep  with  care 

And  broken  'neath  the  load. 
I've  struggled  on  and  often  cringed 

'Neath  Mammon's  cruel  goad. 
I  do  not  care  if  all  the  world 

Has  passed  me  on  the  road, 
Or  fellow  men,  in  Life's  swift  pace, 

Have  roughly  o'er  me  trod. 

For  I've  been  true  to  you,  my  dear, 

Who  oft,  with  toil-worn  hand, 
Hath  stroked  my  brow  and  kissed  me  soft, 

And  made  me  understand; 
That  God  is  good  and  Life  is  short, 

And  we  must  bravely  stand, 
For  all  the  things  that  Jesus  said 

And  gave  in  Love's  command. 

There  was  something  too,  you  did  not  say, 

But  wrought  with  subtle  touch; 
A  thing  that  lifts  me  sweetly  up, 

When  drooped  I  am  and  such, 
To  lips  that  gently  press  mine  own — 

Which  ease  the  sense  of  pain; 
That  soothes  my  tired  heart  to  rest — 

Warms  me  to  life  again. 

You  did  not  falter,  lovely  Soul, 

When  from  your  nest  I  strayed. 
You  left  the  impress  of  your  love 

So  strong  and  sweet  portrayed, 
That  ne'er  the  miles,  the  days,  the  years, 

Have  ever  dimmed  its  light; 
The  vision  of  your  sainted  face 

Is  ever  in  my  sight. 


164 


Oh!     Mother,  dear,  I  do  not  hear 

The  tempest's  wild  refrain; 
I  do  not  mind,  when  you  are  near, 

Old  age  and  cares  that  strain; 
I'm  just  your  little  boy,  once  more — 

Warm  in  his  cradle  lain; 
For,  Mother,  dear,  you're  here  tonight — 

I'm  in  your  arms  again." 

THE  EGO 

1AM  a  Spirit! 
I  lived  before  Soul — else  I  could  not  form  and  ani 
mate  it. 

I  am  a  Bit  of  Flame,  the  wild-fire,  the  universal  medium 
Of  Life,  as  created  by  God,  the  Universal  Parent. 

I  am  a  Soul! 

I  lived  before  Flesh — in  me  the  Spirit  flames  as  in  a  bowl. 
Caught  within  the  web  of  Birth,  a  sufficiency  of  Spirit 
Inhabits  me  as  to  form  a  human  ego. 

I  am  a  Man! 

A  creature  encased  in  Flesh— containing  Spirit  within 

a  Soul. 

I  have  consciousness,  an  ancestry,  an  individuality. 
For  God's  purpose,  I  am  to  experience  all  things. 

I  am  a  Poet! 

All  that  Spirit,  Soul,  Man,  are — I  am;  and  more — I  am  a 

Singer. 

In  the  Soul  of  the  Poet,  his  Spirit  perceives  and  embraces 
Divine  Love  and  Truth,  and  he  becomes — a  Song! 

CHRIST 

A  POET  died  in  the  red  Blood  of  Christ 
And  stood  at  the  mouth  of  Hell; 
Before  an  Angel  white  in  saintly  light, 
His  record  on  Earth  to  tell. 

Up  above,  in  his  gaze,  a  short  way  off, 

Were  the  heights  of  Heaven  nigh; 
All  abroad,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 

Were  souls  from  Earth  in  the  sky. 

165 


Before  him,  silent  stood,  some  that  he  knew — 
They  had  done  him  most  woeful  wrong; 

But  on  Earth,  'fore  they  died,  he  had  clear  said — 
"I  forgive,  bless'd  Lord,"  was  his  song. 

With  outstretched  hands,  imploring,  they  stood — 
The  Poet  looked  askance  the  while — 

Of  the  Angel  white,  in  its  holy  light, 
Brighter  now,  with  wondrous  smile. 

As  it  opened  the  Book  for  each  bared  sin, 

With  ready  pen  to  'flict  the  wrong, 
The  Poet  drew  back,  then  cried  sharp  aloud, 

To  Angel  and  penitent  throng; 

"I  forgave  on  Earth — the  Record  is  closed — 

Angel  white,  bear  my  friends  above; 
Tho  they  wronged  me,  and  scorned,  and  hated  me— 

Fitting  to  burn  in  fires  of  Hell — 
Yet  no  sting  I  know  in  the  red  Blood  of  Christ; 

No  music  so  sweet  to  tell — 
As  the  text  of  the  Word  in  the  olden  tongue; 

His  glorious  song,  I  love!" 

The  Angel  so  white,  with  its  holy  light, 

Spoke — the  Poet  saw  Him  within; 
His  Lord,  his  God,  by  the  red  Blood  of  Christ, 

Who  op'd  His  arms  and  took  them  in. 

THEE 
A  Dream 

MY  Love  and  I  sat  arm  in  arm 
Beside  a  Golden  Sea; 
We  looked  far  off  and  watched  the  waves 
In  curling  canopy. 
No  thing  we  spoke  as  we  sat  there 

In  tender  ecstacy; 
Yet  oft  into  each  other's  eyes 

We  gazed  most  tenderly. 
At  last  a  word  rose  to  our  lips, 
And  that  sweet  word  was — "Thee!" 


166 


IT  IS  THE  YEARS 

ONCE,  in  Autumn,  rising  in  early  morn; 
Scanning  the  great  Peak  for  the  Day,  just  born; 
I  exclaimed,  rubbing  eyes,  to  vision  free — 
"What  Ghost  is  this!  so  spectral,  white,  I  see?" 

Twas  the  first  snow  of  Winter  on  the  Range; 
Visitor — cold,  drear,  bleak,  unwelcomed — strange; 
That,  fallen  in  the  night,  now  chilly  peered — 
An  event  long  expected,  dreaded,  feared. 

Once,  in  late  years,  before  the  mirror  plain — 
Looking,  I  saw  myself  upon  the  pane, 
And  exclaimed,  rubbing  eyes,  to  vision  free — 
"What  Ghost  is  this!  so  spectral,  white,  I  see?" 

'Twas  the  first  snow  of  Old  Age  on  my  beard; 
Visitor — cold,  drear,  bleak,  unwelcomed — feared. 
"It  is— it  is  the  Years!"  I  cried,  "the  Past— 
At  last  my  hair  is  withered  in  the  Blast!" 


ONCE  I  WALKED  WITH  SWEDENBORG 

ONCE  I  walked  with  Swedenborg,  who 
In  mystic  spirit  flight, 
While  yet  his  mortal  body  glowed 
With  human  embers  bright, 
Visited  the  Heavens  and  lived 

To  true  describe  his  scan: 
God  is  Universal  Sovran — 
Plus,  Universal  Man. 

This  Truth  is  mighty — and  most  weak 

The  Image  senses  grope, 
To  grasp  its  perfect  beauty — with 

Its  awful  vastness  cope: 
To  know  that  e'en  the  Universe — 

Huge,  beyond  mortal  scope; 
Is  yet  enclosed  in  human  form — 

A  Divine  envelope. 

167 


To  perfect  ken  this  holy  theme — 

Faith  transcend  to  Knowledge; 
The  Spirit  must  o'er-crow  the  flesh — 

Rise  on  winged  Vision's  fledge; 
Must  flee  the  respirant  body — 

Discern  the  Spirit  realm; 
Ascend  to  heights  celestial, 

With  Virtue  at  the  helm. 

Once,  walking  with  dear  Swedenborg — 

Slipping  fetters  mortal; 
I,  with  him,  saw  Universal 

Man,  our  God,  Immortal. 
Only  once,  thus  thrilled,  my  spirit, 

Upon  the  brink  of  Awe; 
Once  beheld  the  Correspondence — - 

The  Ultimates— the  Law. 

Since  then  my  life  is  ordered  well — 

I've  learned  the  Perfect  Plan. 
My  great  delight  is  brotherhood — 

I  love  men  of  every  clan; 
In  loving  them,  my  God,  I  love, 

For  He  is  every  man; 
In  loving  Him  all  things  I  love — 

The  Universe  I  span! 

GOD'S  SMILES 
To  Steve 

THERE  is  a  man,  who  oft  so  far  disdains 
The  cold  worldliness  of  Life;  who  proclaims, 
Unspoiled  his  youthful  fancies  and  his  dreams 
To  him,  God's  holy  Kingdom  ever  reigns — 
As,  mounted  in  the  saddle,  'broad  the  wilds, 
Entering  with  the  joy  of  happy  child's, 
He  guides  wonder-eyed,  awe-struck  visitors, 
Along  the  floors  of  Nature's  corridors; 
Where,  right  and  left,  beside  the  winding  trail, 
Or  spread,  perhaps,  thruout  a  grassy  dale, 
He  points  to  blossoms,  'mid  bosky  bowers — 
Avenues,  all  bright  with  mountain  flowers. 

168 


"There,"  he  whispers,  his  shining  countenance 
Aglow  with  fair,  yet  manly  innocence; 
To  sweet  blooms  pointing,  'mong  the  Great  Defiles — 
''There  is  the  Welcome  of  the  Hills — God's  smiles." 

"God's  smiles" — Oh!     How  sweet  that  sentiment  fills 

The  heart,  with  raptures  soft  and  pulsing  thrills; 
To  feel,  that  all  abroad  Life's  weary  miles — 

'Neath  our  tired  feet,  perhaps,  amid  the  aisles, 
Flowers — smiling  the  Love  that  reconciles 

Our  fears  and  tears  to  Faith;  that  dear  beguiles 
The  soul  of  Man  to  sail  the  Blessed  Isles 

Among  the  Elysian  vistas  where  God  smiles! 

On  every  hand  the  vermeil  blossoms  bloom; 
On  cliff  and  crag  where'er  the  steeps  give  room. 
Amid  the  umbrage — forests  deep  and  cool, 
Rimming  every  stream  and  crystal  pool. 
In  the  topmost  Pass,  'mong  the  fields  of  snow; 
On  the  Crest,  where  the  wild  winds  ever  blow — 
Beautiful  flowers,  sown  of  Heaven  bright; 
Holiest  symbols,  crowning  every  height. 
Oh!     Blessed  is  that  Soul,  who,  on  Life's  trail, 
Can  make  both  glad  and  glee  the  Mortal  Vale; 
Can  warm  instill  the  Joy  of  Living  sweet — 
Point  to  where  angels,  shining,  we  can  meet; 
Can,  'bove  the  Turmoil,  make  the  sad  heart  gay — 
Blaze,  among  the  Sorrows,  a  Happy  Way; 
Finding  in  the  Wilderness,  fair  profiles — 
The  gracious  Welcome  of  the  Hills,  God's  smiles. 

''God's  smiles" — Oh!     How  sweet  that  sentiment  fills 

The  heart,  with  raptures  soft  and  pulsing  thrills; 
To  feel,  that  all  abroad  Life's  weary  miles — 

'Neath  our  tired  feet,  perhaps,  amid  the  aisles, 
Flowers — smiling  the  Love  that  reconciles 

Our  fears  and  tears  to  Faith;  that  dear  beguiles 
The  Soul  of  Man  to  sail  the  Blessed  Isles 

Among  the  Elysian  vistas  where  God  smiles! 


169 


THE  ARTLESS  SONG 

A  MAID  once  sang  an  artless  song — 
Twas  neither  sad  nor  gay. 
She  sang  it  as  a  robin  does — 
A  pleasing  roundelay. 

You  ask  me  why  I  love  you,  Dear; 

Ask  me  why.     Ask  me  why? 
I  really  can't  give  answer,  Dear; 

Only  try.     Only  try! 

When  a  heart  beats  warm  and  happy,  Dear; 

Softly  shy.     Softly  shy. 
It  cannot  stop  to  answer,  Dear; 

Save  with  sigh.     Save  with  sigh! 

So  I  ask  you  not  to  question,  Dear; 

Never  try.     Never  try. 
I'll  love  you  less  if  I  answer,  Dear; 

Answer  why.    Answer  why! 

A  maid  once  sang  an  artless  song — 
Twas  neither  sad  nor  gay. 
She  sang  it  as  a  robin  does — 
A  pleasing  roundelay. 

BY  MY  FATHER'S  GOLDEN  BEARD 

T  REMEMBER,  in  my  cradle— 
I   Ah!  Tis  many  years,  I  trow; 

I  looked,  and  saw  my  Father,  dear, 

Bend  low  his  warrior  brow, 
To  see  the  child  that  he  had  sired— 

That  Babe  of  Israel's  vow; 
So  soon,  that  Sire,  to  swoon  in  death, 

Laid  low  by  Mammon's  blow; 
So  soon  too,  the  widow,  orphaned  babe, 

The  Great  Beast's  rule  to  know, 
With  which  the  Husband  long  had  strove, 

As  all  men  have — most  dread  Foe. 
Oh!     Blue-eyed  Parent,  sweet  endeared! 
By  Heaven  armed  and  vision  cleared, 
I'll  slay  the  Beast  that  men  have  feared, 
By  mem'ry  of  your  golden  beard. 

170 


There  is  a  Mystic  Thread  of  Gold 

Wove  'mong  the  tapestries  of  Old; 
Connecting  all  the  Heroes,  told — 

Perseus  to  Charles  the  Bold. 
And  true  at  Last — 'tis  sure  to  be — 

Man  will  slay  his  Enemy, 
Born  of  Self  and  Egoity — 

Mammon — Serpent's  subtlety. 
Fear  not,  my  Sire,  I'll  ne'er  forsake 

The  traditions  of  your  Race; 
From  your  bright  brow,  as  from  a  sun, 

I'll  reflect  your  noble  face. 
Oh!     Blue-eyed  Parent,  sweet  endeared! 
By  Heaven  armed  and  vision  cleared, 
I'll  slay  the  Beast  that  men  have  feared, 
By  mem'ry  of  your  golden  beard. 

By  Labors,  twelve,  of  Hercules — 

By  Heroes  of  Rome,  most  cheered; 

By  Knights  of  ancient  Chivalry — 

By  Charlemagne's  Host  careered; 

By  the  Sacred  Rood  of  Calvary — 

By  our  Saints  of  Holy  Grace; 

By  Spirits  of  my  Forebears,  true — 

By  All  the  Human  Race; 

I'm  born  to  slay  foul  Mammon,  base, 

On  his  Evil  Throne,  still  reared; 

Fell  him  bold,  in  Israel's  name — 

That  Great  Beast  which  men  have  feared. 

Then  clear  the  way  for  Christendom! 

For  Sin  and  Hell  are  doomed; 

The  Dragon,  for  a  thousand  years, 

Be  chained  and  deep  entombed. 

A  Knight,  most  dauntless,  brave,  fair  groomed — 

Of  noble  Deed,  is  peered; 

To  lead  the  Nations  conq'ringly, 

Which,  by  Satan,  have  been  seared. 

Oh!    Saints  of  God!    Rejoice  this  Day! 

On  High,  ye  Angels,  watch  and  pray! 

The  Enemy,  I  vow,  I'll  slay — 

By  my  Father's  golden  beard! 


171 


COME  WITH  ME  INTO  ISRAEL 


A  GAIN  a  world- wide  war  has  served  the  Mob; 
/-\    Once  more  Satan's  forces  have  done  their  job. 

Widows,  orphans,  wives,  and  poor  struggling 

man, 

All  involved  in  vile  Mammon's  selfish  plan. 
"There  is  a  future  for  the  man  of  peace," 
Says  old  adage — yet  the  gross  Super-race, 
As  tho  it  'joyed  the  plunge  to  Error  base, 
Took  up  the  sword  and  sought  the  battle  place. 
But  now,  I  call  ye,  God's  men,  His  image, 
While  your  hurts  and  wounds  ye  try  to  assauge; 
Come  with  me  into  Israel — Love's  bond, 
The  blessed  Tie  of  Unity  here  found. 

The  Bible  has  not  weakened  in  our  hand — 

Pure  Word  of  God  it  shall  eternal  stand; 

And  men  have  not  weakened — save  the  Old  Truth, 

They  have,  by  Satan's  devices,  forsooth, 

Divided  it  in  portions,  form  and  creed — 

The  Devil,  laughing,  happy  in  his  greed — 

Till  Religion  now's  but  sad  division; 

And  Hell,  aglee  in  gloating  derision, 

Will  rule  supreme,  and  all  our  war-cursed  race 

Will  fall  in  Pit — ne'er  meet  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Till  in  Israel  cease  we  bloody  strife 

And  build  for  aye  a  unity  of  life. 

We  have  Religion,  we  have  mighty  Christ; 
The  fruits,  we  have,  of  enlightened  Buddhist; 
Have  all  Ethics,  have  Golden  Rules  sufficed — 
But  Boon  of  Unity  we've  sacrificed. 
Without  it,  still  rules,  divisioning  Hell — 
Man's  only  true  Hope  is  in  Israel, 
Universal  Ark,  his  strong  Citadel, 
Where  religion,  races,  nations,  shall  tell 
Doomed  Satan,  that  his  ancient,  worn-out  spell 
Of  Mammon'd  plot  and  misery,  dying,  fell, 
Cast  off  has  been  by  Truth  assembled  Man, 
Who  now  can  see  God's  perfect  tribal  Plan. 

172 


Come  with  me  into  Israel, 

Ye  Men  of  Earth—  all  Nations  grand! 
Races — yellow,  black,  white,  red,  brown — 

Give  fast  to  me  your  heart  and  hand. 
Come,  join  the  World-wide  Brotherhood — 

Israel's  new,  fresh- visioned  Band; 
Come,  join  the  Sons  of  Unity — 

Win  the  Earth  at  God's  command. 
Come  with  me  into  Israel! 

Christian,  Moslem— all  Faiths  true; 
Come  with  me  into  Unity — 

Join  your  hands  with  patient  Jew. 
Advance  our  Banner,  World,  full  wide; 

With  Love,  remove  dark  Error's  cloud. 
Extend  the  civilizing  tide — 

March  on  to  Victory,  Truth,  and  God! 

Dear  Christian,  plight  your  troth  with  Christ  anew, 
Proffering  depth  of  love  He  asked  of  you; 
In  Israel  join  your  Faith  with  faithful  Jew, 
Full  brotherhood  with  him,  most  hearty,  true. 
To  Islam  and  the  Buddhist,  blessed  give 
That  Love  which  alone  full  Faith  will  shrive. 
Let  dear  Confucian  and  loved  Shinto  view 
Your  affection — love  to  them  most  justly  due. 
If  ever  you  in  love  by  Christ  were  thralled, 
Practice  your  Commandment  from  Calvary  called; 
Extend — Looe,  only  hope  of  Truth  on  Earth — 
Pulse  it  warm  as  our  Christ  did  at  His  birth. 

If  you'll  examine,  there's  naught  to  hinder — 
Nothing  vital  that  you  need  surrender;   » 
Christian  remains  Christian  fast  to  the  End — 
Every  sect  and  creed  their  own  rituals  tend; 
The  same  do  all  other  religions  act — 
Close  adherent  to  their  own  native  fact; 
But,  for  that  strength  of  Unity  and  Grace 
Which  God's  Word  demands  of  the  Human  Race, 
Every  soul,  church,  faith,  religion,  nation — 
Confessing  God,  must  unite  their  ration 
Of  Truth  with  all  other's,  so  that,  supreme, 
The  full  Truth  reigns  on  Earth — no  more  a  dream. 

173 


He  who  persists  in  division  is  doomed— 
The  foes  of  Unity  will  be  deep  tombed; 
For  God  is  GOD!     Creator  of  us  all — 
No  division  in  Him  is  possible! 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  all — is  God; 
Every  image,  e'en  figures  made  of  clod, 
Are  but  symbols  of  Holy  Highest  ONE! 
E'en  heathen,  who  see  naught  beyond  the  sun 
Their  idols,  clay,  upraised  to  the  sky, 
Yet  express  they,  God's  dear  supremacy! 
To  Hell,  then,  base  Division — now  beware! 
Unity  in  Israel  wins  Truth's  war! 

Come  with  me  into  Israel, 

Ye  Men  of  Earth — all  Nations  grand! 
Races — yellow,  black,  white,  red,  brown — 

Give  fast  to  me  your  heart  and  hand. 
Come,  join  the  World-wide  Brotherhood — 

Israel's  new,  fresh- visioned  Band; 
Come,  join  the  Sons  of  Unity — 

Win  the  Earth  at  God's  command. 
Come  with  me  into  Israel! 

Christian,  Moslem — all  Faiths  true; 
Come  with  me  into  Unity — 

Join  your  hands  with  patient  Jew. 
Advance  our  Banner,  World,  full  wide; 

With  Love,  remove  dark  Error's  cloud. 
Extend  the  civilizing  tide — 

March  on  to  Victory,  Truth,  and  God! 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  NATIONS 

I'M  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations 
By  Divine  appointment  fair; 
In  Israel  sung  the  Story — 
You  will  find  it  written  there: 
How  the  Spirit  entered  in  me — 
Revealed  Dispensation  true; 
I'm  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations— 
The  Old  Truth,  accented  New. 


174 


I'm  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations — 

To  God's  Fold  I've  safe  called  them; 
The  precious  Flocks  of  Israel, 

To  the  New  Jerusalem. 
I  have  shown  the  Way  to  Glory — 

To  Messiah  and  His  love; 
I'm  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations 

Serving  true  my  God  above. 

I'm  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations — 

My  poor  life  will  soon  be  thru, 
But  Brotherhood  and  Unity 

I've  shown  faithfully  to  you. 
Tho  gently  I  have  called  my  Sheep, 

Yet  most  earnest  was  my  vow; 
I'm  the  Shepherd  of  the  Nations — 

Safe,  the  Fold  they'll  gain,  I  trow. 

DO  YOU  THINK  THAT  DEAR  MESSIAH  WILL 
ONLY  COME  FOR  YOU 

DO  you  think  that  dear  Messiah 
Will  only  come  for  you? 
Will  only  greet  the  Christian 
And  not  the  faithful  Jew?      • 
Do  you  think  that  any  good  man 

Serving,  with  practice  true, 
God  and  Messiah  appointed, 
Will  lose  his  portion  due? 
Ah!     Forget  such  silly  doctrine — 

His  Word  keep  full  in  view; 
No  man  the  Ten  Commandments  keeps — 

Believes  in  God  and  Son — 
But  will  find  the  dear  Messiah 
When  Earth's  full  years  are  done. 

Deep  reflect,  my  fellow  Christian; 

Think  well,  and  right,  and  true; 
If  Messiah  comes  a  Christian, 

He  also  comes  a  Jew. 
But  the  truth  is  much  the  greater — 

The  Bible  shows  the  Plan, 
Messiah's  a  Universal 

King  to  every  man. 

175 


To  him,  whose  practice  worthy  is 

To  know  Messiah's  reign- 
God's  only  proclaimed  Son — 
Dispute  and  rage  are  vain. 
No  good  Soul  will  ask  a  question 
When  angels  trump  His  name; 
If  fools  do — they'll  certain  falter- 
In  Hell  still  make  their  claim. 

Tho  Jesus  died  on  Calvary — 

Fulfilled  Messiah's  doom; 
And  bright   resurrect  in  Glory 

O'er  triumphed  Death's  dark  tomb, 
Showing  to  all  men,  Messiah 

To  the  Cause  most  true  had  come; 
Yet,  since,  nigh  twenty  centuries 

Of  knowledge  vast,  great  sum, 
Has  cleared  the  way  for  Tolerance — 

With  Love,  men  overcome. 
What  care  they  now,  when  manifest 

Messiah  fair  be  made; 
He  in  surpassing  loveliness — 

We  in  our  robes  arrayed; 
Each  Soul  scorns  ancient  prejudice — 

Will  never  fear  or  doubt; 
Salvation,  be  its  one  true  thought, 

Sweet  worship,  most  devout. 

Then  do  not  think  Messiah  dear, 

Will  only  come  for  you. 
For  within  the  Book  'tis  written — 

He  comes  for  all  souls  true, 
Who  believe  in  God  and  the  One 

Appointed — He  to  reign 
O'er  the  Redeemed,  most  blessed,  dwelling 

Happily  in  Heaven. 
By  the  Love  and  Truth  you  bear  Him, 

You'll  know  the  Holy  Lord — 
Christ,  David,  and  Immanuel, 

He'll  be,  true  to  the  Word. 
He's  a  Universal  Sovran, 

Crowned  bright  of  God  on  High; 
And  all  souls  He'll  call  to  Glory, 

Save  those,  who,  doubting,  die. 

176 


AGE 

HPHEY  say  that  I  am  grown  old, 

i        Decrepit,  aged,  and  gray. 

True — the  long  Earth  years  are  told — 

I  am  all  that  they  say: 
And  I  know  that  I  shall  die, 

The  Flesh,  as  my  Jesus  on  the  Tree. 
But  how  old  is  that  Soul  which  lives — 

That  dwells  with  God  eternally? 

YE,  SMA'  CRYING  BIRD 

YE,  sma'  crying  bird,  blown 
By  October's  cold  blast. 
How  keenly  ye  mind  me 
Of  my  wanderings,  past! 

Can  ye  nae  bide  Shelter — 

Stable,  rick,  cosy  barn? 
Bide  the  warm  straw  and  hay, 

Ye  poor  wind-driven  bairn? 

Nay!     Like  myself,  wee  bird, 
Fate  blows  ye  with  the  Blast; 

Ye'll  wander— till  the  Weird 
Of  your  life  holds  ye  fast. 

Ye,  sma'  crying  bird,  blown 

By  October's  cold  blast. 
How  keenly  ye  mind  me 

Of  my  wanderings,  past! 

"TONIGHT" 
A  Dream 

1SAW  in  a  dream  her  face  last  night, 
Not  seen  since  the  long  year's  array, 
When  it  glanced  on  me  'neath  her  bridal  veil 
On  the  eve  of  her  wedding  day; 
When  our  glances  met  in  that  strange  farewell, 

As  a  more  favored  man  than  I, 
Led  her  down  the  aisle  from  the  altar-rail 
Enjoying  her  pink  blushes  shy— 

177 


When  I  read  in  her  eyes  she  yet  was  mine, 
As  cruel  Fate  played  its  dread  part — 

Tho  clasped  in  the  arms  of  that  other  man, 
Twas  I  that  she  held  in  her  heart. 

For  I  was  her  lover,  her  suitor — a  man 

Who  had  lived  in  the  light  of  her  smile, 
Just  as  a  flower  turns  toward  the  sun 

To  languish  when  it  sets  the  while. 
In  spite  of  the  anguish  that  bled  my  heart — 

The  jealousy  which  made  me  vile, 
I  bowed  to  gods  who  were  stronger  than  I, 

Invoking  Time  to  reconcile. 
Tho  'tis  some  thirty  years  since  that  event, 

When  another  man  took  my  bride  away; 
Yet  last  night  when  her  face  in  vision  came, 

I  felt  the  old  love  as  if  yesterday. 

She  said  just  a  word  in  this  midnight  dream, 

Yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  knew 
The  soft  import  of  a  mystic  delight — 

A  paradise  rose  to  my  view; 
Seraphs  of  Heaven  were  gathered  there, 

Where  the  palms  of  Eden  grew; 
She  seemed  to  be  standing  at  the  low  gate 

Of  a  garden  of  roses  in  dew; 
Whose  portal  was  opened  wide  unto  me, 

All  lit  by  her  heart's  warmest  hue, 
To  welcome  the  man  of  her  maiden  love — 

To  summon  his  passion  anew. 

She  drew  off  a  glove  with  artless  grace — 
Hand  so  tender,  so  soft,  so  white, 

That  I  sighed  in  my  dream  and  eager  looked 
As  she  pointed  within  to  the  light, 

Of  a  bower  of  bliss  and  hymened  love 
Where  a  brazier  of  Joy  glowed  bright: 

And  I  read  in  the  depth  of  her  woman's  eye 
Such  expectance  of  deferred  delight, 

That  I  knew  the  long  years  were  merely  myths- 
Fair  illusions  that  reunite, 

For  she  gave  me  the  glance  of  her  wedding  day 
Said  just  the  one  word— "Tonight." 

178 


FAILURE 


WASHINGTON,  at  Valley  Forge; 
Dave  Thoreau's  unsold  volume. 
John  Brown,  at  the  Ferry's  gorge; 
Sidney  Foster's  blighted  bloom. 
Abe  Lincoln,  after  Bull  Run; 
Eugene  Debs  in  Woodstock  jail. 
Woodrow  Wilson,  last  election; 
Truth,  denied,  riding  the  Gale! 

I  crept  out  into  the  woods  last  night, 

Away  from  the  eyes  of  man; 

Out  there  in  those  verduring  temples, 

Arched  by  Heaven's  starry  span; 

And  I  prayed,  that  in  Israel's  mission, 

As  the  wind  soughed  thru  the  trees, 

That  the  God  of  the  Nations  would  bless  me — 

Make  me  fail  as  one  of  these: 

Washington,  Eugene  Debs,  John  Brown,  Lincoln; 

Dave  Thoreau,  Sidney  Foster,  Woodrow  Wilson! 


B 


MAMMON  TAUNTS 

Y  the  word  of  great  St.  John, 
Ye  bear  within  thy  palm, 
My  imprint,  Slave,  upon." 


"Ye,  lie!    Mount  of  Fat! 

Mammon — your  outrageous,  ancient  fiat, 

Illusion  is — that  sordid  day  is  past; 

My  hand  has  long  since  been  your  deadly  foil; 

Its  palm  but  bears  the  mark  of  honest  toil, 

Which,  oft  pained  in  blistered  cast — 

Grimed  and  cracked  with  Earth's  dear  sod; 

Is  yet  pure  worship  of  Labor's  holy  God; 

Of  Him  who  empowered  Aaron's  potent  Rod." 


179 


SOLACE 

rTPHIS  is  my  own  sweet  hour 

I        With  Thee,  bruised  One. 
Fresh  from  the  bosom  of  God, 

Celestial,  I  come, 
To  embrace  that  sad  soul  of  Thine 

In  soft  compassion. 

You  do  not  know,  now, 

Desponding,  fainting  One, 
Why  this  pallid  affliction 

Cankers  Thee  with  death. 
But  Ye  shall  know,  even 

As  Ye  walk  in  faith — 
Ye  shall  know— and  be  glad — 

And  rejoice,  faithful  One. 

There  is  a  heavenly  land, 

Oh,  wearied  One. 
And  all  that  Thou  hast  loved, 

Or  ever  shall,  is  there — 
An  empire  of  pure  affection, 

In  whose  zone, 
Is  heaped  up  sweetest  comfort 

For  your  every  care. 

Hearts  are  sometimes  broken 

To  let  Love  in — 
That  greater  Love,  which  God 

Claims  as  His  own — Divine; 
And  thus,  Solace,  softly  creeps 

From  His  breast  to  Thine. 

MOOD 

THIS  day  I  sorrow — Winter's  reign  is  o'er! 
Grass  is  springing  green  on  Vale's  sun-warmed 

floor- 
Water  from  melted  snow  stands  on  the  moor — 
The  nimble  snipe  are  skipping  'long  the  shore. 
Hark!     The  watchdog  bays  an  ominous  bark; 
I  listen— hear  strange  voices  on  the  road — 
Not  the  vibrant  Spring  note  of  thrush  and  lark, 
But  human  voices,  that  most  dire  forebode, 

180 


Peace  and  solitude  from  my  hut  far  hurled — 
Flag  of  the  Wilderness  must  now  be  furled; 
And  on  the  mast,  Man's  ensign  to  the  breeze 
I'll  fling,  dreading — him,  with  all  Sin's  disease, 
That  thru  the  open  Summer  months  will  tease 
Till  winter  shuts  the  door  again  with  freeze.  • 

I  hear  a  step,  a  knock  upon  the  door; 
My  rest  is  done — it  is  a  visitor! 
Restraining  baying  hound,  I  cross  the  floor; 
Put  on  a  front  of  smiles,  Guile's  orator — 
Then,  fearful,  brow  with  lying  Cheer  encurled, 
I  raise  the  latch,  and  greet,  alas — the  World! 

This  day  I'm  joyous — Winter's  reign  is  o'er! 
Grass  is  springing  green  on  Vale's  sun-warmed  floor 
Water  from  melted  snow  stands  on  the  moor — 
The  nimble  snipe  are  skipping  'long  the  shore. 
Hark!     The  watchdog  bays  a  familiar  bark; 
I  listen — hear  strange  voices  on  the  road — 
Not  mere  vibrant  wild  note  of  thrush  and  lark, 
But  dear  human  voices  near  my  abode; 
Lonesomeness  and  pall  will  now  be  far  hurled — 
Drear  flag  of  Wilderness  will  be  close  furled, 
And  on  the  mast,  Man's  ensign  to  the  breeze 
I'll  fling,  anxious,  that  I  can  happy  please 
Him,  thru  summer — that  he  can  take  his  ease 
Till  cruel  winter  brings  again  its  freeze. 

I  hear  a  step,  a  rap  upon  the  door; 
Great  joy  has  come — at  last  a  visitor! 
Restraining  baying  hound,  I  cross  the  floor, 
Aglow  with  smiles,  Love's  sweet  ambassador — 
Then,  eager,  brow  with  hearty  Cheer  encurled, 
I  raise  the  latch,  and  greet,  oh  joy — the  World! 

How  strange  is  Mind?  its  vagrant  errant  Mood? 
One  moment,  yearning  closest  Brotherhood — 
Next,  skulking  deep  the  Cave  of  Solitude. 
Ah!     'Tis  Love,  alone,  the  far  'part  extremes 
Can  reconcile — with  Duty's  weighing  beams, 
She  tips  base  Mood  with  Heart,  and  Truth  redeems. 

181 


WHEN  DEATH  COMES  BY 


E/E  had  conquered  all  my  enemies, 
And  to  my  life  had  given  every  joy; 
Had'brought  me  friends  and  happiness; 
And  pleasures,  dear,  without  alloy. 

Then  came,  alas!  a  grief  profound — 

I  looked  into  a  Face,  pale  fair; 

Once  animate  with  rosy  health  and  smiles — 

Now  cold  and  still  amid  the  clustering  hair. 

I  cried  for  Love — for  help,  for  comfort,  strength, 
Amid  the  desert  wild  of  my  despair; 
But  Love  was  not  there — I  was  left  alone — 
I  wept,  I  could  not  find  her  anywhere. 

Then  came  another  Form  as  I  knelt  there; 
So  sweet  and  strong,  pointing  to  God  on  High. 
Who  roused  and  comforted  me — made  me  bear. 
Ah!     One  must  call  on  Faith  when  Death  comes  by ! 


LIFE 


!  Who  created  Life  that  it  might  know  You ; 
Thou, Who  didst  once  die  that  Life  might  miss  You ; 
Thou — Who  didst  rise,  resurrect,  that  Life  might 

Love  you; 
Know,  that  Thou  werl  known,  and  missed,  and  sought, 

above; 
And  that,  thru  Faith,  and  Works — proofs,  rising  to 

your  view, 
Life  will  surely  find  You,  and  finding— lovel 


182 


FROM  SIN,  I  HAVE  LIVED  A  DAY 

1DID  not  care  what  storm  might  break 
On  my  old  gray  head  bowed  down. 
I  did  not  care  what  Hell  might  dare, 
Or  World,  with  its  Mammoned  frown. 
I  had  my  precious  beads  to  tell — 

My  wreath  with  piercings  bethorned; 
Tho  Fiends  might  gnaw  my  shrunken  breasts — 

'Twas  Satan,  not  I,  who  mourned; 
For  I  was  a  Child  of  pure  Ecstacy — 
In  Visions,  treading  the  embattled  Way; 
With  Christ,  holding  the  Fiends  of  Hell  at  bay. 
I  thank  Thee,  God — from  Sin,  I  have  lived  a  Day! 

I  did  not  know  the  Day  had  passed, 

Till  I  woke  to  evening  sky. 
I  looked  about,  and  all  the  Fiends, 

With  Satan,  on  ground  did  lie. 
Their  teeth  were  broke,  their  spears  were  bent, 

Their  faces  long  and  drawn; 
And  then  I  knew  that  Hell  was  sold — 

Its  implements  gone  to  pawn. 
Its  powers  were  spent  on  my  strong  array — 
Were  applied  in  vain  on  my  Ecstacy; 
With  Christ,  I  had  won  the  furious  fray. 
I  thank  Thee,  God — from  Sin,  I  have  lived  a  Day ! 


MY  SHRINE 

MY  shrine  is  not  raised  unto  Thee 
From  the  snowy  peaks  of  Mountains; 
Neither  is  it  laid  within 
The  mist-wet  caverns  of  the  Sea — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 

My  shrine  is  not  dim  hid  among 
The  leafy  dells  of  the  Forest; 
Neither  is  it  set  in  a 
Fair  oasis  of  the  Desert — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 


183 


My  shrine  is  not  frost  laid  within 
The  icy  chambers  of  the  North; 
Neither  does  it  rest  among 
The  scorching  tropics  of  the  South — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 

My  shrine  is  not  silk-curtained  nigh 
The  purple  windows  of  the  East; 
Neither  is  it  set  between 
The  golden  portals  of  the  West — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 

My  shrine  does  not  orbing  glitter 
On  the  twin  rivers  of  the  Stars; 
Neither  is  it  buried  'mid 
The  precious  ores  of  boweled  Earth — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 

My  shrine  does  not  cloud-float  or  swim 
The  void-shored,  dome  gulf  of  the  Skies; 
Neither  is  it  set  below, 
Farther,  nearer,  mist-hid,  or  sunned — 
But  in  a  place  more  holy. 

Nay!     Thou  terrible,  feared  Lord, 

Yet  sweetest,  dearest  Father— GOD; 

Thou,  of  the  fierce,  avenging  Sword — 

Thou,  of  the  almond  blossomed  Rod; 

My  shrine  is  not  there,  but  here — 

My  lovely  soul  within — free, 

Which  Thou  hast  shaped  with  Thine  own  hands, 

And  set  me  in  the  midst  of  Joy  to  worship  Thee! 

"  Know  ye  not  that  ye  are  the  Temple  of  God 
And  that  the  Spirit  of  God  dwelleth  in  you)" 

I  Corinthians,  3-16 


184 


In  July,  1921 ,  a  family  by  the  name  of  Aubuchon,  from  Michigan- 
town,  Indiana,  were  camped  on  Glacier  creek,  one  of  the  main 
tributaries  of  the  south  fork  of  the  Big  Thompson  river.  The 
family  had  planned  to  climb  Longs  Peak,  but  having  suddenly 
decided  to  break  camp  and  return  to  their  home  in  Indiana,  they 
had  abandoned  the  project.  One  of  the  boys,  however,  Gregory,  a 
strong  lad  of  about  eighteen  years,  disobeyed  the  wishes  of  his 
parents  and  on  the  morning  that  they  were  to  break  camp,  July  20th, 
rose  very  early  and  quietly  stole  away,  before  the  family  were  awake. 

After  waiting  all  that  day  and  night  without  the  return  of  the 
youth,  the  distracted  family  notified  the  National  Park  authorities 
who  instituted  an  immediate  and  elaborate  search  in  which  the  fam 
ily  joined.  After  several  day's  of  anxious  labor  during  which  the  Longs 
Peak  district  was  thoroly  examined  by  the  National  Park  rangers, 
the  family  was  at  last  forced  to  depart  for  their  Eastern  home  and 
apparently  without  the  slightest  clue  of  the  lost  youth's  where 
abouts,  but  with  the  firm  conviction  that  if  he  was  dead  his  remains 
would  sometime  be  found  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  Peak. 

On  the  morning  of  September  16th,  nearly  two  months  later, 
rangers  McDaniel,  and  Higby,  were  assigned  a  climb  to  the  summit 
of  Longs  by  Park  Supt.  L.  C.  Way,  to  obtain  information  from  the 
register  on  the  summit  of  the  number  and  identity  of  the  people  who 
had  ascended  the  mountain  that  year,  and  who  were  also  instructed 
to  take  powerful  binoculars  with  which  to  examine  the  surface  of 
the  surrounding  country,  with  the  possibility  of  discovering  any 
object  that  might  resemble  a  human  body,  especially  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  foot  of  the  great  east  precipice  of  Longs.  Attain 
ing  the  summit  these  hardy  men  presently  identified  with  the 
glasses,  a  human  body  lying  on  a  field  of  snow  exactly  at  the 
base  of  the  precipice  a  half  mile  below.  Later,  they  descended 
to  it,  and  identified  the  remains  as  those  of  the  lost  youth,  Greg 
ory  Aubuchon.  The  body  was  in  a  fair  state  of  preservation, 
but  most  every  bone  was  broken.  It  then  seemed  apparently 
well  proven,  that  the  youth  had  probably  gained  the  summit 
successfully,  but  bewildered  and  wholly  unfamiliar  with  the  safe, 
regular  trail,  had  descended  the  east  face  of  the  mountain 
and  been  caught  in  the  dangerous  trap  at  the  foot  of  the  Notch, 
which  is  described  by  Elkanah  J.  Lamb  in  his  Autobiography 
and  who  once,  in  1871,  fell  into  the  same  peril;  he  says  "The 
mountain  wall  was  not  only  perpendicular,  but  projected  with  a 
frowning  incline  some  degrees  over  my  icy  pathway."  It  was  pioba- 
bly  at  this  point  or  some  other  position  above,  for  Mr.  Lamb,  who 
descended  in  this  vicinity  a  full  month  later  in  the  season  when  there 
must  have  been  much  less  snow  and  ice,  also  says:  "having  already 
passed  dangerous  points,  perpendicular  places,  sloping  icy  places, 
that  were  almost  impossible  to  round  or  ascend."  Thus,  perfectly 
trapped,  likely  unnerved  and  exhausted  after  the  long  and  arduous 
climb  to  the  summit,  the  distracted  Gregory  could  neither  ascend 
or  descend  with  safety.  The  ranger's  theory  was,  that  the  youth 
had  remained  fearstricken  and  helpless  on  some  cleft  of  that  terrible 
precipice  until  he  fell,  either  from  hunger  and  exhaustion,  or,  as  in 
Mr.  Lamb's  case,  made  one  desperate  effort  to  escape,  and  losing  his 
balance,  fell  many  hundreds  of  feet  to  the  snowfield  below,  and  where 

185 


his  body  was  embedded  in  the  snow  deep  enough  to  not  be  noticed 
until  the  hot  sun  of  two  summer  months  had  melted  it,  hence  Supt. 
Way's  wisdom  in  having  the  snowfields  scanned  with  glasses  after 
the  summer's  melting  of  the  snow. 

The  Park  authorities  notified  the  coroner  of  Larimer  county, 
and  on  the  following  day,  the  17th,  the  body  was  recovered  with 
considerable  difficulty,  the  great  Chasm  at  the  foot  of  the  Peak 
brooding  and  lowering  all  day  in  suggestive  funereal  mood,  in  a  great 
ashen,  pallored  cloud  mist,  and  it  was  near  10:00  p.  m.  when  the  little 
cavalcade  of  rescuers  returned  by  moonlight.  So  far  as  known, 
Gregory  Aubuchon  is  the  first  and  only  victim  that  Longs  Peak  has 
claimed  as  the  result  of  a  fall. 

GREGORY  AUBUCHON 

HE  was  happy — he  was  careless — 
Was  Gregory  Aubuchon. 
He  was  dauntless — he  was  fearless — 
As  he  looked  the  Mountain  on. 
Ah!     Youth  is  gay  and  innocent, 

And  laughs  when  danger's  nigh; 
It  does  not  realize  its  life 

Until  it  comes  to  die. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns — 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

Dear,  thoughtless  youth,  you  vagabond, 

Your  simple  story's  old; 
Long  since,  the  Fates,  in  anger  fierce, 

Your  little  life  has  told. 
Disobedience,  its  ire  roused — 

Fair  Eden's  parent  curse — 
Has  doomed  you  to  the  penitence, 

Its  ancient  grudge  will  nurse. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns — 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

The  camp  was  still,  and  silence  bound 

The  family's  slumber  deep, 
As  beneath  the  stars  of  heaven 

From  its  presence  he  did  creep. 
The  Gorge  echoed  with  wild  waters 

As  they  poured  from  snow-bound  heights; 
And  he  climbed  with  guilty  footsteps 

Toward  the  Peak  where  Fate  invites. 
Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns — 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

186 


Long  he  toiled  beneath  the  summit 

Till  the  Gorge  came  to  an  end; 
Far  up  the  Mountain's  shoulder  where 

Steep  the  Narrows  westward  bend. 
Here  the  sun  in  golden  glory 

Beamed  the  splendor  of  July; 
Here  down  he  looked  upon  the  camp 

From  that  eminence  so  high. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns- 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

Howe'er  the  guilt,  the  goal  was  won — 

The  great  summit  towered  nigh. 
Quick  he  scrambled  up  the  Home  Stretch 

With  victory  in  his  eye. 
Here  upon  that  dominant  crag 

He  gazed  o'er  range  and  plain — 
At  last  the  sense  of  rest  produced 

The  thought  of  camp  again. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns- 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

He  laughed,  the  task  was  easier, 

Those  upward  miles,  now  down. 
Eager,  he  descended  careless 

To  where  the  Dangers  frown. 
Ah!    Cruel,  did  the  Fates  lure  on 

The  youth  who  disobeyed; 
At  last  he  stood  upon  the  ledge 

Where  Doom  was  dire  arrayed. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns- 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

From  whence  he  came,  above  his  head, 

The  wall  rose  sheer  and  fell; 
Beneath  his  feet,  the  precipice 

Dropped  to  the  yawning  hell. 
Then  Panic  and  the  Terrors  seized 

His  shrinking,  trembl'ing  soul, 
And  wildly  on  that  dizzy  cliff 

His  weeping  eyes  did  roll. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns- 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 

187 


No  one  has  kenned  what  happened  then — 

The  dread  Day — the  horrid  Night; 
He  may  have  clung  upon  that  cleft 

With  long  heroic  fight. 
Or  else,  one  desperate  venture; 

He  sprang,  and  failed  the  path — 
Ah!  let  us  not  too  close  explore 

How  fell  the  fated  Wrath. 

Oh,  rash  and  heedless  boy,  before  Tomorrow  dawns- 
Gregory  Aubuchon,  for  you  the  Chasm  yawns! 


PHILOSOPHY 

T  NEVER  had  a  Sorrow  fall 
I   But  in  a  Joy  forgot  it  all. 

Oft  widow's  weeds  are  but  the  pall 
To  hide  another  nuptial. 
Tears  at  many  a  funeral 
Flow  on  to  joy — a  Birth,  withal. 
But,  most  sad,  observe  the  dread  reversal- 
Joy  oft  brings  a  stealing  Sorrow  cruel: 
Then  man  applies  his  only  logic  tool — 
Philosophy,  to  bridge  the  interval. 


THOUGHT 

\  THOUGHT  of  a  Woman  so  wondrous  fair- 
I   Of  beauty  and  virtue  beyond  compare; 

And  lo,  as  I  looked,  she  was  standing  there 
Thought!     Creating  what  thinking  egos  dare. 


I 


HOPE 

WOULD  like  to  live  a  beautiful  life- 
One  that  was  free  from  sin; 
A  life  that  was  filled  with  holiness  bright- 
Pureness  of  thought  within. 


188 


BLUEBIRDS  'NEATH  THE  CABIN  EAVES 


B 


LUEBIRDS  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  nesting- 
Love  and  Joy  once  more  are  fondly  resting 
On  the  rosy  summits  of  my  dreams. 


Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  twitt'ring — 
Their  affection,  like  warm  sea  waves  cresting 
Ocean  reef,  sweeps  o'er  my  heart  Love's  streams. 

Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  mating — 
Once  again,  they  find  me  dedicating 

Praise  and  worship  to  the  Holy  Themes. 

Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  hatching — 
Their  tender  young,  eager,  I  am  watching — 
Those  dear  pinions  bright  of  sky-blue  gleams. 

189 


Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  ling'ring — 

Loth  to  leave  the  home-nest  warm,  so  shelt'ring. 

Stay,  my  darlings,  till  your  last  hour  beams. 

Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  flying— 
With  their  brood  on  Southland  zephyr  sighing, 
They  leave  me,  still  happy  in  my  dreams. 

Bluebirds  'neath  the  cabin  eaves  are  coming — 
Swift,  o'er  the  melting  snows  they'll  be  homing 
To  the  bosom  that  so  fond  esteems. 


GOODBYE 


THE  flowers  of  Summer  are  seeding — 
It  is  time  to  say,  "Goodbye." 
The  voice  of  the  far  World  is  calling 
To  those  labors  that  ever  ply. 

Oh!  When,  in  your  distant  wanderings, 
Your  thoughts  to  the  mountains  fly, 

The  Trail  of  Fond  Mem'ry  will  lead  you 
To  those  Scenes  that  never  die. 


Why  weep  then,  sweet  Lady,  so  tender; 

Ye  Gallant,  why  grieve,  or  cry? 
For  parting  is  only  the  rain-drop — 

A  cloud  adrift  in  the  sky. 

Though  flowers  of  Summer  are  seeding — 
Though  'tis  sad  to  say,  "Goodbye;" 

The  Trail  of  Fond  Mem'ry  will  lead  you 
Back  to  Scenes  that  never  die. 


190 


WHEN  THE  LAST  GUEST  HAS  GONE 

"\  V  7HEN  the  last  guest  has  sped  from  my  doo  rway — 

yy        From  the  hearth  of  my  mountain  home; 

When  the  last  guest  has  answered  his  World  call 

And  I  am  left  standing  alone, 
'Mid  the  white  snows  of  drear  winter  falling, 

When  the  birds  to  the  South  have  flown; 
Then  into  the  Mansions  of  Memory 

The  dear  Ghosts  of  the  Seasons  come: 
When  the  last  guest  has  gone  to  his  summons, 

'Tis  then,  I  come  into  my  own. 

Oh!     Ghosts  of  the  Years  that  are  passing; 
Children  so  dear  to  my  heart; 
Come,  enter  the  doors  of  the  Spirit — 
Draw  once  again  to  my  hearth. 

Ye,  Shades  of  guests  long  departed, 
Enter  my  arms  as  of  yore; 
No  guest  of  this  world  or  the  spirit 
But  seeks  again  my  lone  door. 

He's  only  gone  on  for  the  moment, 
As  he  speeds  over  the  moor; 
His  soul  lingers  on  in  my  mem'ry — 
His  presence  is  here  as  before. 

Then  enter  the  Mansions  of  Mem'ry, 
Ye,  Friends,  thru  the  Seasons  found; 
Though  ye  speed  to  a  far  off  country, 
Yet  ye  are  here  in  my  bosom  bound. 

When  the  last  guest  has  sped  from  my  doorway — 

From  the  hearth  of  my  mountain  home; 
When  the  last  guest  has  answered  his  World  call 

And  I  am  left  standing  alone, 
'Mid  the  white  snows  of  drear  winter  falling, 

When  the  birds  to  the  South  have  flown; 
Then  into  the  Mansions  of  Memory 

The  dear  Ghosts  of  the  Seasons  come: 
When  the  last  guest  has  gone  to  his  summons, 

'Tis  then,  that  I  call  him,  my  ownl 

191 


THE  DAY  THAT  WAS  GOD'S 

IT  came,  sweet  surprise — to  my  excursion; 
Its  significance  slow  grew  upon  me. 
At  first,  it  seemed  like  any  other  day — 
On,  I  walked,  unconscious  of  Deity. 

Nigh  half  way  up  the  steep,  I  paused  for  breath; 
Looking  back,  I  ne'er  saw  the  World  so  bright; 
All  abroad,  ne'er  observed  so  blue  a  sky — 
Its  heightened  hue,  bedazzled,  quite,  my  sight. 

Farther  up,  again  I  paused — gazed  about; 
And  now  a  gentle  zephyr  bathed  the  scene, 
Cooling  my  brow — a  calm  refreshment  came. 
I  sighed,  my  thought  bestirred — I  walked  serene. 

From  that  point,  it  seemed  to  me  a  Presence 
Moved  beside  me  to  the  appointed  Height. 
If  so — we  were  at  Peace,  without — within. 
Arrived,  there  was  a  suffusion  of  soft  light. 

Quite  spent,  I  leaned  against  a  tree  and  looked. 
Birds  came,  tame  and  eager,  each  one  singing. 
In  great  amaze,  yet  in  silent  delight, 
I  listened — they  were  sweet  Praises  bringing. 

Rested,  I  paced  the  terrace,  awed — thoughtful. 
It  showed  a  vast  vista — far  to  the  Plains. 
Walking,  I  noticed  wondrous  fair  flowers; 
And  trees,   bent,   old,   wind-worn,   seemed  freshened 
greens. 

These  Edenic  proofs,  most  full  convinced  me — 
I  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  that  He 
Was  here;  that  the  whole  Illumination — 
Bird  songs,  verdure,  sky — was  for  Deity. 

There  was  one  thing  yet;  His  creature's  worship — 
Man  must  supplement  the  praise  of  things; 
This  day  of  God's,  perfected,  full  must  be — 
I  worshiped,  'mid  the  play  of  Angel's  wings. 

Thus,  'twas  His  day,  and  mine — for  I  enjoyed. 
Awed  still;  a  last  portent — some  golden  clouds — 
Fearful  lest  I  disturb  His  privacy, 
I  left,  to  dear  affirm — This  day  was  God's! 

192 


WHEN    THE   WATCH-DOG   BARKS   AT   THE 
DAWN  WIND'S  BAY 

WHEN  the  watch-dog  barks  at  the  Dawn  Wind's 
bay, 

As  o'er  the  Mountain  breaks  the  Morning 
gray; 
I,  to  my  soul,  this  question  say; 

"Am  I  prepared  to  meet  this  Day?" 
Then  my  soul  replies,  "There  is  one  sure  Way — 
To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  your  orisons  pay." 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  WILDS 

ONE  lingering  look  from  the  distant  Pass; 
One  more  glance  on  those  vistas — sweet  and 

last — 

That  we've  seen  in  shadow,  cloud,  and  the  sun; 
Have  learned  to  love,  in  excursions,  now  done. 

Farewell!    Ye  dear  hills  and  mountains — 
Ye  far  heights  and  alpine  trails. 
Farewell  to  the  streams  and  fountains — 
To  green  verdured  glades  and  vales. 
Farewell!     Adieu  to  the  Wilds  and  you. 

Farewell!     Ye  woods  and  the  dun  herds — 
To  the  camps  and  hearth  that  cheered. 
Farewell  to  songs  of  the  wild  birds — 
To  the  hut  so  snug,  endeared. 
Farewell!    Adieu  to  the  Wilds  and  you! 

One  thought,  Wilds,  in  the  sadness  of  parting, 
We  speak,  as  fondly  we  gaze  o'er  the  view; 
To  the  dear  bond  of  Nature,  forever, 
We'll  abide,  Wilds,  tender,  faithful  and  true. 

Farewell!     Ye  dear  hills  and  mountains — 
Ye  far  heights  and  alpine  trails. 
Farewell  to  the  streams  and  fountains — 
To  green  verdured  glades  and  vales. 
Farewell!    Adieu  to  the  Wilds  and  you. 

193 


Farewell!     Ye  woods  and  the  dun  herds — 
To  the  camps  and  hearth  that  cheered. 
Farewell  to  songs  of  the  wild  birds — 
To  the  hut  so  snug,  endeared. 
Farewell!     Adieu  to  the  Wilds  and  you! 


WOODROW  WILSON 
January  9,  1920 

WOODROW  WILSON! 
Our  President — God  bless  you! 
We  greet  You,  first  International  President! 
To  you,  our  eternal  thanks!    Yea!    Our  highest  Praise! 
For  your  vast,  devoted,  inspired,  Continent  days; 
Linking  this,  our  Nation — these  American  states — 
To  the  whole  World's  company  of  vested  nations; 
All  men  leagued  covenant — in  common  now  their  fates. 
This  is  as  it  should  be — perfect  Equality; 
That  final  test  of  Empire  true — not  Slave  but  Free — 
Fought  and  won,  long  since,  in  this  Land  of  Liberty 
Which  lies  between  the  shoulders  of  the  Western  Sea. 
By  your  efforts,  loved  Chief,  an  Old  World  gone  to  pawn 
To  those  who  held  base  unscrupulous  mastery, 
Now  views,  above  the  wreck  of  cruel  War,  that  Dawn, 
Which  proclaims  the  Sun  of  Universal  Liberty! 

Woodrow  Wilson! 

God's  Instrument — May  He  bless  you 

As  he  did  the  revered  Washington  and  Lincoln; 

For  His  hand,  potent  in  this  land,  is  plainly  seen, 

As  in  the  records  of  past  exalted  nations, 

Which,  by  Sin,  losing  the  appointed  Way — have  been. 

Oh!     May  we,  God  of  Israel,  ne'er  fall  as  they; 

But,  should  it  be  our  sad  deplored  Fate  so  to  do, 

It  is  our  firm  Faith,  that  other,  better,  nations, 

As  yet,  perhaps,  unborn,  will  find  the  Path  anew, 

And  lead  sublime  races  of  endeavoring  Men 

On  paths  of  Truth,  faithful,  as  Woodrow  Wilson  true! 

194 


Woodrow  Wilson! 

Fellow  Citizen — God  bless  you! 

Even  as  we,  your  democratic  peers,  your  friends; 

Feel  that  fond  Esteem  which  our  warm  applause  extends. 

We  love — we  cannot  help  but  looe — deep  revere,  that 

Man, 
Who,  joined  with  Asia's,  Europe's,  Afric's  enlightened 

Band, 
Has,  unfalt'ring,  under  God,  forged  those  links  that 

Bind 
The  League  of  Nations  for  the  good  of  all  Mankind! 

Woodrow  Wilson! 

President — Instrument — Citizen — This  is  Your  Day! 
We  celebrate  it  now — this  glad  hour — while  we  may; 
Nor  let  the  press  of  great  events  postpone  our  say, 
For  none  so  great  as*  this — Your  Day — for  Aye  and 

Aye — 
Will  be,  'till  God's  angels  peal  forth  the  Judgement  Day ! 

BACK  ON  THE  TRAIL 

ONCE  more  I'm  on  the  pony — 
Trail  inviting  sweet. 
Yonder  is  the  river — 
Afar  the  Peak  I  greet. 
Golden  sun  is  shining 

O'er  the  pine-clad  dale; 
No  care — no  sin — no  evil 

To  rude  assail; 
Oh,  God!  but  I'm  glad 
To  be  back  on  the  trail. 

Once  more  I'm  on  the  highway 

Of  the  bighorn  and  the  bear. 
Campbird  a  calling  to  me 

For  a  crust  of  bread  to  spare. 
Sky-blue  'bove  aspen  tassels, 

Is  the  weather's  tale; 
No  care — no  sin — no  evil 

To  rude  assail; 
Oh,  God!  but  I'm  glad 

To  be  back  on  the  trail. 

195 


Once  more  I'm  in  the  valley — 

Pony  going  slow. 
Coyote  barking  yonder — 

My  pipe's  a  smoking  low. 
Now  the  day's  declining — 

Sun  has  left  the  swale; 
No  care — no  sin — no  evil 

To  rude  assail; 
Oh,  God!  but  I'm  glad 

To  be  back  on  the  trail. 

Once  more  I'm  on  the  old  path, 

Old  stars  guide  the  way. 
Wind's  a  blowing  fresh 

And  cool  at  the  close  of  day. 
On  the  hill  I'll  greet 

The  moon  a  rising  .pale; 
No  care — no  sin — no  evil 

To  rude  assail; 
Oh,  God!  but  I'm  glad 

To  be  back  on  the  trail. 

Some  day,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 

I'll  follow  it  on  and  on; 
To  heaven — perhaps  to  hell, 

If  the  Fates  upon  me  frown. 
But  if  I  meet  God,  and 

With  Him  can  prevail; 
No  care — no  sin — no  evil 

To  rude  assail; 
I'll  ask  Him  to  put  me 

Back  upon  the  trail. 


YE  HILLS  OF  ST.  VRAIN 

ONCE  more  the  dear  prospect  of  hill  and  of  dale — 
Once  more  the  green  depths  of  the  stream  mur- 

m'ring  Vale; 

Bursts  bright  on  my  eyes  as  the  sun  lights  the  plain — 
Sweeps  the  crests  of  the  West  with  his  fiery  mane. 
Once  more  from  the  home  cot,  won  with  labor  and 

pain — 
Ye  Hills  of  the  St.  Vrain,  I  greet  ye  again! 

196 


When  Morn  in  her  glory  shakes  the  dew  from  her  train 
And  the  lark  lifts  its  first  song  in  raptured  refrain; 
When  winds  from  the  canons  waft  the  scent  of  the  pine 
And  sweetly  the  worn  Soul  quaffs  Spring's  odors  divine; 

Ah!    Tis  so  sweet  to  greet  you — those  summits  again; 

Your  dear  heights — your  loved  crags — ye  Hills  of 
St.  Vrain! 

When,    returned   from   the   World — from   its   fevered 
strain — 

To  don  the  pure  vestments  of  Nature  again. 

To  list  to  the  bluebirds  nesting  happy  once  more, 

As  I  sit  on  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door; 

Ah!     It  is  joy  to  gaze  o'er  your  woodlands  again — 
Your  ever  green  mountains — ye  Hills  of  St.  Vrain! 

'Tis  then  the  old  Question  comes  up  from  the  main — 
My  Soul,  are  you  worthy,  are  you  fit,  are  you  clean, 
To  dwell  in  the  land  where  the  Great  Spirit  broods — 
Where  the  Wilderness  sleeps  'mong  its  vast  solitudes? 

Ah!    I  cannot  answer,  for  I'm  old  and  in  wane; 

But  it's  so  sweet  to  greet  you — ye  Hills  of  St.  Vrain! 

Then  up  with  your  banners,  deathless  Soul,  brave  and 
true; 

Bright  polish  the  arms  so  oft  raised  'gainst  the  foe. 

'Mid  the  songs  of  the  wild  birds  your  courage  renew — 

In  the  bosom  of  Nature  find  manna  and  dew. 
Ah!   I'll   answer — I'll   answer — the  Question  again, 
Tho  some  day  I'll  be  going,  ye  Hills  of  St.  Vrain: 
When  the  battle  is  over  and  Mammon  is  slain, 
To  heaven  I'm  going — ye  Hills  of  St.  Vrain! 


In  1916  occurred  the  death  of  one  of  the  most  treasured  charac 
ters  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  region,  Lathrop  Ripley, 
the  artist,  aged  35  years,  the  son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  C.  Ripley 
of  Kansas  City,  Missouri.  In  company  with  his  uncle,  Dr.  W.  J. 
Workman,  the  region  in  the  vicinity  of  Fern  and  Odessa  lakes, 
Spruce  and  Forest  caftons,  headwaters  of  the  Big  Thompson  river, 
were  first  explored  by  him,  and  also  stocked  with  trout.  They  also 
built  the  first  lodge  on  the  shores  of  Fern  Lake.  Lathrop  Ripley 
was  not  only  a  sturdy  pioneer  and  woodsman  but  was  also  a  highly 
accomplished  gentleman,  a  rare  landscape  painter,  a  musician,  and 
an  intense  lover  of  nature.  The  last  composition  which  he  played 

197 


by  the  shore  of  Fern  Lake  on  his  favorite  instrument,  the  cornet, 
was  the  air  of  Say  au  revoir,  but  not  good-bye.  Many  of  his  paintings 
were  sold  to  visitors,  many  adorn  the  cabin  walls  of  mountaineer 
friends,  and  his  parents  have  assembled  a  considerable  collection  of 
them. 


THE  SILENCE  THAT  IS  SILENT  TO  ALL 

A:ROSS  the  Lake  of  the  Ferns 
Where  the  sunset  last  burns 

As  it  flames  from  the  Western  wall, 
You  will  hear  far  and  near 

A  sounding  horn  sweet  and  clear 

Which  calls  when  the  first  shadows  fall. 

You  look  for  the  Bugler,  yet  see  him  not, 

Tho  you  hear  his  clear  pealing  horn; 
Tis  a  Spirit  stands  there,  scene  of  his  call, 

Rare  man,  by  Death  from  us  cruelly  torn. 
But  we  still  hear  his  song,  sounding  sweet  mystical, 

Afar  o'er  the  valleys,  the  peaks,  and  the  tarn; 
That  one  pure  saintly  strain,  swelling  full  triumphal, 

Out  of  Death  the  Ressurrection  is  born. 

A  Hero,  he  stood,  with  his  face  to  the  West — 

Long  he  had  strove  with  Life's  mystery. 

In  the  sunset's  last  glow  o'er  the  peaks  of  snow, 

He  faced  Eternity  smilingly. 

From  the  depths  of  his  heart  at  the  call  of  Art 

He  sang  his  swan-song  to  the  stars; 

And  placed  to  his  lips  the  bright  silvery  horn — 

Bold  challenged  the  Void  with  its  bars. 

Oh,  saintly  o'er  that  white  wilderness 

Rose  his  song  sweet  ecstatical; 

And  we  know  that  the  angels  sang  with  him 

From  those  Heights  that  overlook  all. 

"Say  au  revoir,  but  not  good-bye," 
Were  the  words  of  his  last  bugle  call; 
And  wildly  the  sleeping  mountains 
Awoke  in  their  sky  vaulted  hall. 
From  dizzy  crag,  cliff,  fissure,  and  hollow — 

198 


From  wall  to  wall,  peak  to  peak,  rock  to  rock, 
The  wild  echoes  resounded  and  tumbled — 
Chasm  and  gorge  trembled  afar  in  the  shock. 
Yet  higher  the  sweet  paean  kept  pealing, 
'Till  the  mountains  rang  loud  in  its  thrall; 
Yet  coldly  they  mocked  the  brave  Bugler 
From  the  Silence  that  is  silent  to  all. 

Oh!    Lathrop!    We  know  what  your  call  was — 

'Twas  the  call  of  the  Great  Soul  for  its  mate, 

That  on  Earth  will  never  be  answered 

By  the  flesh  of  the  mortal  state; 

For  great  souls  are  wed  to  the  Infinite — 

Without  bounds,  forever,  their  fate; 

Tho  born  of  tender  woman's  flesh  tissue 

They  seek  realms  immortal  situate. 

You  had  sought  afar  thru  the  cities; 

Afield  you  had  searched  the  country  wide  round; 

At  last  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains 

You  pealed  forth  your  bold  trumpet  sound. 

'Twas  a  challenge  sublime  from  the  Bugler 
As  he  called  o'er  the  stilly  lake; 
"Tho  ye  only  give  echo,  wild  mountains, 
My  spirit  shall  here  its  place  take. 
I  will  call  and  keep  your  steeps  sounding 
Till  the  time  ye  shall  burst  into  flame. 
I  shall  witness  the  day  of  your  breaking, 
When  from  your  lips  is  wrung  the  Great  Name." 
Oh!     Hero!     When  you  challenged  that  Silence- 
When  you  called  to  the  Heights  with  your  soul— 
We  knew  that  the  Gods  would  give  answer; 
You  would  forfeit  your  life  for  the  Goal. 

Oh!     Silence!     Why  do  you  only  echo — 
Mock  the  cry  that  is  wrung  from  the  heart? 
Why  do  you  so  wantonly  veto 
The  yearning  of  high  soaring  Art? 
Tho  a  thousand  far  echoing  mountains 
Should  answer  the  bright  horn  by  the  shore, 
Yet  their  echoes  your  call  will  mere  ditto — 
Their  Secrets  they'll  keep  evermore. 

199 


Thus  the  Gods,  too,  keep  their  hid  treasures; 
Tis  in  vain  ye  challenge  the  Heights. 
Thru  the  Gates  of  Death  swinging  open, 
Alone,  can  you  purchase  their  rights. 

Oh!     Lathrop!     I  looked  at  the  stars  tonight — 

Gazed  aloft  on  those  stupendous  suns; 

And  I  wondered,  sweet  Friend,  did  you  reach  them 

Are  you  one  of  the  Shining  Ones? 

And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  you 

From  where  the  wild  echoes  dwell  in  their  hall, 

Your  haunting  melody  still  sweetly  ling'ring — 

The  far  mountains  still  singing  the  thrall — 

''Say  au  revoir,  but  not  good-bye," 

The  words  of  your  last  bugle  call. 

Oh!     Dear  Spirit  we  know  you  are  standing 

By  the  shore  where  the  clear  waters  fall; 

You  are  calling  to  us  from  the  Shadow — 

From  the  Silence  that  is  silent  to  all. 


200 


THE  WESTERN  TRAIL 


THE  Western  Trail  is  an  open  trail 
That  leads  to  a  land  of  Men, 
Who  ask  not  where  nor  whence  you've  come 
And  who  greet  you  as  their  ken. 
You  rise  with  the  dawn  as  it  lights  the  path 

'Mong  the  hills  where  the  green  glades  run; 
And  rest  in  the  camp  on  the  river's  bank 
'Neath  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

Oh!    The  Western  Trail  is  a  Spirit  Trail, 

Where  an  Angel  sings  like  a  nightingale. 

She  leads  to  the  place  where  the  Great  Dreams  play — 

Where  the  Valleys  of  Promise  bloom  so  gay: 

She  has  youth  in  her  breast — flowers  'neath  her  feet, 

And  her  robes  are  of  bright  green  pine; 

Her  eyes  beam  love  and  her  hair  is  gold, 

And  her  smile  is  the  stars  that  shine. 

The  Western  Trail  is  a  rugged  trail 

That  tingles  the  heart's  red  blood; 
It  has  peaks  to  climb  and  streams  to  cross 

And  it  leads  to  the  Ocean's  flood. 
You  soar  with  the  lark  and  join  in  its  song 

And  your  soul  thrills  as  joyous  sweet; 
And  you  come  to  day's  end  in  a  canon  deep 

And  sleep  where  the  Arch  Angels  meet. 

The  Western  Trail  is  a  happy  trail 

And  its  joys  are  pure  and  full; 
It  leads  you  to  scenes  of  solemn  thought 

Where  God  speaks  clear  to  the  soul. 
You  rise  in  New  Light  from  the  Mystic  Night— 

Mind  your  steps  'long  the  Wondrous  Way; 
And  you  end  your  life  by  the  Spirit  Shore 

Where  the  Others  have  found  their  way. 

Oh!    The  Western  Trail  is  a  Spirit  Trail, 

Where  an  Angel  sings  like  a  nightingale. 

She  leads  to  the  place  where  the  Great  Dreams  play — 

Where  the  Valleys  of  Promise  bloom  so  gay; 

201 


She  has  youth  in  her  breast — flowers  'neath  her  feet, 
And  her  robes  are  of  bright  green  pine; 
Her  eyes  beam  love  and  her  hair  is  gold, 
And  her  smile  is  the  stars  that  shine. 


HAPPY  VALLEY 

1KNOW  I'm  but  a  vagrant- 
Just  a  dreamer,  lazy,  bold. 

I  know  I'm  only  fit  to  hear 

My  critics  talk  and  scold. 
I'm  worthless — a  good-for-naught, 

In  the  most  of  people's  eyes; 
Yet  if  Truth  was  my  defender 

They  would  meet  a  sweet  surprise: 
For  my  Love  is  on  the  Mountain 

And  her  Call  is  in  the  skies— 
And  beyond  the  Range  we're  going 

Where  the  Happy  Valley  lies. 

Don't  call  me  to  the  labors — 

To  the  Task  that  never  dies. 
Don't  chain  me  in  Toil's  bondage — 

To  the  Work  that  ever  plies. 
Don't  put  me  in  the  treadmill 

Where  they  grind  the  wealth  that  flies. 
Don't  force  me  to  the  follies 

Of  the  World  that  ever  cries: 
For  my  Love  is  on  the  Mountain 

And  her  Call  is  in  the  skies — 
And  beyond  the  Range  we're  going 

Where  the  Happy  Valley  lies. 

I'm  just  a  merry  gypsy — 

Careless  vagabond — a  jade. 
While  the  World's  so  very  busy 

I  often  loiter  in  the  shade. 
I  can  work,  tho — for  a  penny, 

For  I  always  call  it  play; 
My  wealth  is  in  the  keeping 

Of  the  Lord  who  gives  each  day. 


202 


And  why  should  I  be  pitied, 

Tho  I'm  clad  in  vagrant  guise? 
The  folly  of  most  men  is — 

They  are  too  worldly  wise: 
So  my  Love  is  on  the  Mountain 

And  her  Call  is  in  the  skies — 
And  beyond  the  Range  we're  going 

Where  the  Happy  Valley  lies. 


203 


WHEN  WE  CAMPED  IN  THE  VALE  OF  THE 
GRAND 

OH,  softly  the  moonbeams  did  quiver, 
When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand, 
On  the  breast  of  the  shining  river 
That  flowed  o'er  its  pebbly  strand. 
When  we  sang  the  old  songs  of  Dixie 
Binding  strong  the  fellowship  band, 
As  we  sat  in  the  grove  by  the  river 

When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand. 

Oh,  softly  the  moonbeams  did  quiver, 

When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand, 
On  the  breast  of  the  shining  river 

That  flowed  o'er  its  pebbly  strand. 
When  we  smoked  the  sweet  pipes  of  briar 

Which  the  vows  of  dear  friendship  demand, 
As  we  sat  in  the  grove  by  the  river 

When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand. 

Oh,  softly  the  moonbeams  did  quiver, 

When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand, 
On  the  breast  of  the  shining  river 

That  flowed  o'er  its  pebbly  strand. 
When  we  slept  'neath  the  stars  of  heaven — 

Dreamed  of  God  and  His  Promised  Land, 
As  we  laid  in  the  grove  by  the  river 

When  we  camped  in  the  Vale  of  the  Grand. 


204 


1907-1914 


ESTES  PARK— MY  COLORADO  QUEEN 


FAIR  one,  thy  snow  lords  are  waking 
'Neath  the  torches  of  crimson  morn. 
Fair  one,  thy  gray  crags  are  steaming 
In  the  mists  of  the  midnight  storm. 
Fair  one,  the  eagles  are  screaming 
A  challenge  to  mountain  hearts. 
Fair  one,  thy  woods  are  ringing 
In  the  pipe  of  a  thousand  larks. 

Oh!  Estes  Park!  I  do  love  you, 
Queen  of  the  mountains,  with  your  skies  so  blue; 
Your  hills  and  vales,  your  murm'ring  streams, 
Your  beauteous  nights,  when  the  silver  moon  beams. 

Fair  one,  I'll  seek  thee  in  rainbows, 
I'll  search  all  thy  valleys  green. 
I'll  hunt  thee  in  golden  sunshine, 
And  chase  thee  in  shining  rain. 
I'll  woo  thee  in  purple  shadows; 
And  under  thy  white  waterfalls, 
I'll  clasp  thee  fast  in  the  torrent — 
We'll  wed  where  the  lone  ousel  calls. 


Fair  one,  our  lives  shall  be  merry. 
Our  hearts  shall  bound  as  the  deer, 
That  swift  o'er  thy  meadows  scamper — 
That  quaff  from  thy  fountains  clear. 
And  when  in  the  evening's  shadow 
My  life  speeds  away  in  the  gloom, 
Lay  me  beneath  a  green  aspen — 
Let  thy  grassy  slopes  be  my  tomb. 

Oh!  Estes  Park!  I  do  love  you, 
Queen  of  the  mountains,  with  your  skies  so  blue; 
Your  hills  and  vales,  your  murm'ring  streams, 
Your  beauteous  nights,  when  the  silver  moon  beams. 


207 


A 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK 


Dainty  daughter  of  the  Snow  am  I. 
My  father,  the  gold  Sun. 
My  Lord,  the  blue  Sky. 


I  was  born  when  a  Sunbeam  my  mother's  lips  kissed. 

I  leaped  from  her  bosom  in  a  halo  of  mist. 

I've  dashed  down  the  mountain  in  my  garments  of  foam, 

Toward  the  great  Ocean,  my  future  home. 

For  the  River's  my  husband,  and  together  we 

Shall  wind  thru  the  rushes  toward  the  deep  sea. 

Oh,  you  that  are  thirsty,  as  I  pass  you  by, 
Oh,  drink  of  my  fountain,  the  dew  of  the  sky; 
Brewed  on  the  far  heights  of  sunlight  and  snow; 
Distilled  'neath  the  blue  sky  and  poured  here  below. 
Oh,  drink  of  my  waters,  each  passing  soul. 
Quaff  from  my  bosom,  as  I  toward  the  sea  roll. 

A  dainty  daughter  of  the  Snow  am  I. 
My  father,  the  gold  Sun. 
My  Lord,  the  blue  Sky.    • 


208 


WORSHIP 

¥  AST  glint  of  gold  upon  the  hills — 
|    A      Last  gleam  of  Day's  sun  glory. 
How  like  the  summits  of  my  soul, 

Aglow  with  skies  so  rosy, 
Of  Him  whose  heart  is  the  flower  of  life, 

Rare  rose  of  loveliness; 
Of  Him  whose  love  is  the  bosom  of  bliss, 

Fragrant  with  holiness. 

And  I  kneel  me  down  in  that  holy  light, 
And  press  my  lips  to  the  sod. 

And  I  know  by  faith  of  the  inner  sight 
That  I've  kissed  the  hand  of  God. 

Last  glint  of  gold  upon  the  hills- 
Last  gleam  of  Day's  sun  glory. 

My  soul  pours  forth  its  flood  of  praise — 
The  evening's  offertory. 


209 


The  quaking  asp  or  aspen,  the  principal  deciduous  tree  of  the 
Northern  Colorado  Rockies,  is  equally  the  favorite  of  the  botanist 
and  the  woodsman.  Long  after  the  grass  and  flowers  appear  in  the 
early  spring,  it  refuses  to  burst  its  buds,  fearful  of  belated  snows; 
but  once  assured,  puts  forth  its  vivid  green  leaves  with  great  vigor. 
The  tall  slender  trunks  assume  a  beautiful  velvety  creamy  bloom 
in  the  spring,  which  together  with  the  dazzling  leaf  cover,  presents  a 
refreshing  aspect  of  verdured  beauty.  It  is  a  saying  among  the 
mountaineers  that,  "wherever  the  aspens  grow,  there  is  good  soil;" 
which,  however,  does  not  always  apply,  if  depth  of  soil  is  to  be  con 
sidered;  for  this  flourishing  sylvic,  which  finds  root-hold  even  at 
timber-line,  often  withers  and  dies  in  considerable  companies, 
when  it  reaches  the  food  limit  of  shallow  soil.  Once  rooted  in  deep, 
or  average,  moist  soil,  however,  and  protected  from  wind,  it  attains 
considerable  girth  and  height,  growing  side  by  side  with  spruce  and 
pine  for  many  years.  It  is  to  the  aspen  that  the  woodsman  turns  for 
binding  sticks,  in  connection  with  his  chains,  to  bind  his  load  of  poles 
or  logs;  for  there  is  just  enough  spring  in  the  withy  green  trunks,  to 
ease  the  strain  of  the  load  on  the  rough  roads  over  which  in  part  he 
is  usually  forced  to  travel;  also  to  the  same  tree  he  turns  for  his  brake- 
blocks,  on  account  of  the  elastic  fibre  of  its  growth  and  its  very  slight 
wear  on  the  wagon  tires.  Aspen,  when  dried,  is  highly  prized  for 
stove  wood,  and  if  a  stove  is  clogged  from  the  use  of  pine,  it  will 
consume  and  destroy  the  soot  and  pitch,  and  thus  clean  the  stove. 
In  autumn,  the  hills,  from  the  lofty  heights  near  timber-line,  down 
to  the  great  leafy  groves  of  the  valley  floors,  are  one  bright  blaze 
of  gold  and  crimson  from  the  frost  turned  leaves  of  the  aspen,  in 
vivid  contrast  with  the  dark  green  masses  of  the  conifers.  It  is  the 
aspen  that  furnishes  the  beaver  his  principal  supply  of  dam  and 
house  material,  and  its  bark  is  his  main  food  provision. 


SONG  OF  THE  QUAKING  ASP 

r~TlHE  aspens  are  calling  the  little  dun  deer. 

|  Come!  Up  from  the  valley  and  be  with  us  here. 
Here,  where  the  grasses  are  spreading  their  green; 
Here,  where  the  rushes  are  breasting  the  stream. 

Come!  Oh,  ye  bounding  ones  of  mountain  and  heath. 

Come!  Rest  safe  beneath  me,  the  soft  quaking  leaf. 


210 


The  aspens  are  calling  the  little  dun  deer. 

Oh!  Know  ye  not,  loved  ones,  the  summer  is  here? 
Here,  where  the  thrushes  are  piping  their  lay; 
Here,  where  the  roses  perfume  the  long  day. 

Come!  Oh,  ye  coy  ones,  ere  the  autumn's  in  sheaf. 

Come!     Sweet  recline  ye,  'neath  the  soft  quaking  leaf. 

The  aspens  are  calling  the  little  dun  deer. 

Come!  Tarry  ye  not,  the  sweet  lupine  is  here. 
Here,  where  the  west  wind  soft  ripples  the  lake; 
Here,  where  the  moonbeams  pierce  the  dark  brake. 

Come!  Oh,  ye  wild  ones,  up  from  manor  and  fief. 

Come!  Hide  in  the  shade  of  the  soft  quaking  leaf. 

THE  HEAVENLY  BLUSH 

T  I  ^HE  Heavenly  Blush  is  pressing 

JL       Its  cheeks  'gainst  the  mountains  soft; 
Last  kiss  of  the  fading  sunset, 

Pressed  fond  on  the  peaks  aloft. 
Oh,  lingering  One,  thou  wringest 

A  sigh  from  my  earth-bound  heart, 
For  one  who  dwells  beyond  ye — 

By  my  ribbed  flesh  thus  kept  apart. 

Oh,  Heavenly  Blush,  my  message  bear, 

As  ye  fade  from  yonder  sky; 
Caressing  Eve's  dusky  deep-murked  spaces, 

As  ye  lambent  westward  ply. 
Tell  her,  my  immortal  soul  is  pressing 

Its  red  lips  upon  her  brow: 
That  our  troth,  divinely  shining, 

But  waits  Death  to  break  Life's  mortal  vow. 


YOU  LOOKED  FAIREST  IN  THE  HILLS 

COKING  back,  dear  Heart,  it  seems  to  me 
You  looked  fairest  in  the  hills. 
Back  in  that  rarest  summer  spent 
Beside  the  alpine  rills. 

'Twas  June — You  well  remember,  Love, 

Those  effulgent  nights  of  Moon, 
That  bathed  the  Vale  in  glory-light, 

And  set  the  world  atune. 


We  wandered — Ah,  Love,  you  blush  to  tell; 

How  far  those  flowering  glades. 
We  lingered— Ah,  'till  Morn's  first 

Dew-kist  hour  we  sweetly  strayed. 

Nymph,  you  were — a  naiad  blushing  rare. 

And  I,  gath'ring  roses  fair, 
Keen  envied  their  soft  leaves  nestling 

In  the  clusters  of  your  hair. 

Let's  go  back,  dear  Heart,  this  summer  day, 

To  those  same  beloved  hills. 
I'll  woo  your  cheeks  to  roses  back 

Beside  the  alpine  rills. 


Grand  Lake,  in  Middle  Park,  the  source  of  the  Colorado  River 
is  the  largest  natural  body  of  water  in  the  State  of  Colorado,  being 
about  two  miles  in  length  and  one  wide;  it  is  also  probably  the  deepest, 
soundings  of  over  700  feet  having  been  obtained.  It  lies  at  an  altitude 
of  about  8,000  feet,  in  the  lap  of  comparatively  low,  densely  wooded 
mountains,  with  the  towering  Continental  Divide  seen  dimly  thru 
the  deep  gorges  of  the  North  and  East  Inlets,  and  the  beautiful 
Rabbit  Ear  range  to  the  northwest,  visible  from  mid-lake  and  the 
south  shore.  Row,  sail,  and  motor  boating,  fishing  and  bathing, 
are  the  sports  of  the  numerous  summer  guests  of  the  village  hotels. 

GRAND  LAKE 

GRAND  Lake! 
Beauteous  Mother  of  the  River 

That  in  California  land 
Pours  its  flood  of  crystal  water 
From  the  Valley  of  the  Grand. 
Rio  Colorado — 

Born  of  Rocky  Mountain  snows. 
Rio  Colorado — 
To  the  far  Pacific  flows. 

Spruce-rimmed  Basin! 

The  meeting  place  of  gorges, 

Vast,  stupendous — 
Between  mountains  dim  and 

Misty  high  beyond — 
With  wide  extended  beaver  flats, 

Canals  and  hutted  pond. 

212 


Abysmal  Cistern! 
Walled  with  dizzy  fathoms 

Of  moss-grown  granite, 
Rising  ghostly  from 

Subterranean  steeps; 
As  columned  cities  seen  dimly 

In  Ocean's  vasty  deeps. 

Blue-recessed  Grot! 
Of  snows — which,  falling 

From  the  blue  empyrean 
In  whitest  fleece,  and 

Melted  by  the  Sun, 
Again  take  on  the  color 

Of  the  sky  in  thy  bosom. 

Flashing  Inlets! 

North  and  East — pouring, 

Eternal,  their  crystal  flood 
Into  the  waters  of 

This  shining  pool; 
Drawn  from  the  melting  ices  of 

The  Alp-land's  glaciers  cool. 

Ambrosial  Teat! 
The  Outlet— of  this 

Mothering  breast,  which 
Bears  and  feeds  the 

Mighty  Colorado  River, 
Rushing  seaward  thru  the 

Arizona  land,  its*  water. 

Grand  Lake! 

Beauteous  Mother  of  the  River 
That  in  California  land 
Pours  its  flood  of  crystal  water 
From  the  Valley  of  the  Grand. 

Rio  Colorado — 

Born  of  Rocky  Mountain  snows. 

Rio  Colorado — 

To  the  far  Pacific  flows. 

213 


'DEED,    IT   SEEMED   NICE   TO   HAVE   THE 

CABIN    CHUCK   FULL   OF   TOBACCO 

SMOKE  AGAIN 

r~TlHE  four  came,  to  my  hermitage  retreat, 

I    Out  of  the  deep  snows  and  the  bleak  wind's  beat; 

Full  into  the  glare  of  the  big  fireplace, 
Casting  in  red  bronze  each  deep  weathered  face. 
Men  of  the  howling  wilderness  were  they, 
In  the  Nation's  wide  forests  holding  sway. 
Forest  rangers,  tho  filled  with  Nature's  ken, 
Yet  keen  to  enjoy  the  good  cheer  of  men. 
To  the  supper  I  called  them.     They  fell  to, 
With  zest  that  only  wolves  and  woodsmen  know. 
When  thru,  with  story  and  joke,  and  puff  and  pull, 

Their  four  pipes  went  at  it  then. 
'Deed,  it  seemed  nice  to  have  the  cabin  chuck  full 

Of  tobacco  smoke  again. 


214 


YON  SOLITARY  BLUE  HOLLOW 


Isabella  L.  Bird-Bishop,  the  celebrated  English  traveler,  who 
visited  Estes  Park  from  September  to  December  in  1873;  and  who 
so  graphically  describes  her  experiences  there,  in  her  book,  A  Lady's 
Life  in  the  Roc^y  Mountains,  refers  to  Estes  Park  as  "that  solitary 
blue  hollow." 

FROM  yon  solitary  blue  hollow, 
Rimmed  by  ice-breathed,  snow-beaked  bergs, 

And  misty — douched  with  shining  rain, 
Emerges — nude,  dripping,  exultant 
And  gold-tressed—diaphanous  Summer. 

In  yon  solitary  blue  hollow, 

Rumbling  in  deep  sky-ward  surge, 

From  wall  to  wall — and  then  again, 
Echoes  far — loud,  crashing,  hail-glinting 

And  cloud-massed — hoarse  mutt'ring  Thunder. 

On  yon  solitary  blue  hollow, 

Slashed  in  cloistered  aisles  by  vale  and  gorge, 

Deep  nessed  with  mist  wet  cliffs, 
Glittering — bursts,  flaming,  gold-limbed  Sun; 

And  Rainbow,  its  guled  arch  uplifts. 

From  yon  solitary  blue  hollow, 

Sunk  in  the  cooled,  dew-laved  lap  of  Night, 

And  songed  with  soughing  pines, 
Rises  full — the  'fulgent,  mellow  Moon; 

Which,  gorgeous — in  lunar  glory  shines. 

In  yon  solitary  blue  hollow, 

Flower  perfumed,  purple  Pool  of  Sky, 

Swims  crimson  Dawn  and  Day; 
And  Evening,  swift  veiling  western  hills, 

Her  rubied  gems  sets  in  array. 

In  yon  solitary  blue  hollow 

Broods  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Crag  Land, 

In  its  vol'tile  Burg  of  Air; 
Which,  towering  to  infinite  heights, 

Falls  shattered — yet  ever  doth  repair. 

215 


The  mountaineer  on  the  east  slope  of  the  Rockies  observes  the 
flight  of  many  strange  and  beautiful  feathered  folk — often  to  him 
wholly  unknown  and  unidentified — at  the  various  stages  of  spring; 
flying  northward  along  the  Range,  with  that  mad-pulsing,  swift, 
migratory  flight,  described  so  inimitably  by  Audubon.  Even  in  the 
dead  of  night  he  hears  their  strange  wild  cries,  as  they  wing  close 
over  his  cabin  roof;  also  he  sees  them  at  times  flit  across  the  full 
moon;  and  occasionally,  when  fierce  blizzards  prevail  at  night,  they 
hurl  themselves  against  the  windows,  attracted  and  blinded  by  the 
light.  Sometimes  they  stop  and  hastily  feed,  and  the  alp  dweller 
finds  his  habitation  suddenly  surrounded  by  hundreds  of  north 
bound  birds,  eagerly  snatching  at  those  bits  of  food  and  seeds,  which 
the  fierce  winds  of  winter  have  buried  in  the  deep  drifts,  and  which 
the  sun  now  mercifully  releases  for  their  benefit. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 

O'ER  the  wintry  mountains  they  fly — they  fly, 
Birds  of  passage,  'cross  the  sky. 
And  they  sing  to  me  as  I  sigh — I  sigh, 
Of  the  flowers  a-coming  bye  and  bye. 

They  fly  'cross  the  March  moon,  so  white — so  white, 

Birds  of  passage,  thru  the  night. 
Whirring  their  eager  wings  so  light — so  light, 

Spreading  the  gladness  of  Summer's  delight. 

They're  breasting  the  azure,  so  pure — so  pure, 

Birds  of  passage,  swift  and  sure. 
A-singing  to  drear  lands,  "Endure — endure! 

We're  the  gay  songsters  of  Spring's  overture." 

They're  seeking  the  northland,  afar — afar, 

Birds  of  passage,  toward  polar  star. 
Bidding  the  drifted  snows,  "Beware — beware! 

For  the  spring  Sun's  mounting  his  golden  car." 

Fly  on,  ye  blessed  ones,  so  sweet — so  sweet, 

Birds  of  passage,  fair  to  meet. 
The  dwellers  of  far  lands,  Oh,  greet — Oh,  greet, 

With  that  joy  thou  hast  given  me  complete. 


216 


ESTES  PARK  IN  WINTER 

IN  winter,  by  the  wondrous  brush  craft 
Of  Nature  fair  fashioning  the  view, 

The  matchless  amphitheatre  is  pasteled 

White  and  blue— the  Delften  hue. 
Its  floor,  which  in  summer's  spangled  gay  with  flowers, 

Is  sanded  now  with  virgin  snows. 
And  those  thousand  flying  buttresses, 

Pine  verdured,  ascending  in  rock  sculptured  rows, 
From  park  floor,  to  those  snow  crowned  heights 

That  firm  support  the  vaulted  dome  of  heaven, 
Are  changed  from  their  fresh  green  to  blue, 

And  soft  merge  with  the  deep  empyrean. 
In  this  vast  auditorium,  clouds,  fine  mists, 

And  vapors,  stage  vistas  present — rare! 
Shifting  day  and  night  scenes  for  Pan's  finest  drama  s 

Played  to  light  responsive  air. 


Jay  and  chickadee  lend  animate  life, 

With  cottontail  and  snow-shoe  fleet. 
And  the  beaver,  hutted  in  his  willow  and  asp  fringed 
pool, 

Fast  icebound,  sleeps. 
Oft-times,  stag  and  doe  bound  'cross  open  glades, 

And  disappear  in  cedar  hedges. 
Magpies  aeroplane  in  careening  flight, 

And  bighorn  browse  'mong  sun-warmed  ledges. 
Winds,  bleak  and  chill,  in  high  carnival 

'Mong  the  upper  passes,  roar  and  welter; 
And  at  times,  in  Park  itself,  fierce  biting, 

Drive  both  man  and  beast  to  shelter. 
Clear  and  cold  moonlight  nights 

A  fairy  land  of  magic  frost  enchantment  bring; 
An  d  bright  days,  e'en  in  deep  midwinter, 

Promise  sweet  the  coming  charms  of  spring. 


217 


The  unseen  river  yet  preserves  its  meand'ring  form 

In  snow-crusted  ice. 
And  the  elephantine  Continentals 

Dark  lower  'neath  their  vizored  eyes; 
Or  on  sunny  days,  glittering  transcendent 
•     From  fair,  storm  forgotten  skies, 
As  mailed  knights,  in  full  regalia  for  battle, 

Or  rite  to  solemnize, 
Stand  rank  on  rank,  with  the  assembled  host 

Of  the  gleaming  Medicine  Bow, 
Whose  wild  leagues  of  wintry  rampart, 

Vigilant  guard,  their  shining  arms  bestow. 
While  towering  Longs,  'neath  his  boss  of  eternal  snow, 
Helmed  in  glory  stands; 
The  Sov'reign  Lord  and  Chief 

Of  all  the  white  plumed  legion  of  the  Oberland. 


218 


Longs  Peak,  altitude  14,255  feet,  the  cloud  monarch  of  the 
Northern  Colorado  Rockies,  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  mountains 
of  the  world;  and  is  particularly  noted  for  its  attraction  to  both 
foreign  and  native  professional  mountain  climbers,  as  affording  a 
genuine  test  of  their  prowess,  being  wholly  inaccessible  to  other 
than  pedestrians.  It  is  known  to  foreigners  as  the  "American 
Matterhorn,"  from  the|fact  that  like  its  famous  namesake,  the  Matter- 
horn  of  the  Pennine  Alps,  altitude  14,703,  its  summit  is  an  obelisk, 
altho  more  cubed  and  not  sharply  pointed.  From  the  east  this  feature 
is  hardly  noticeable,  but  from  the  west,  north,  and  south,  it  is  very 
striking;  in  fact,  from  Flat  Top  and  south  on  the  Continental  Divide 
on  the  Grand  Lake  trail,  its  aspect  is  truly  formidable,  and  would 
seem  to  utterly  defy  the  most  intrepid  mountaineer.  By  a  curious 
coincidence,  the  first  record  of  its  attempted  ascent,  made  by  W.  N. 
Byers  in  1 864,  was  almost  identical  with  similar  efforts  made  on  the 
Matterhorn  in  Switzerland:  the  latter,  however,  was  finally  con 
quered  in  1 865  by  Whymper's  party,  costing  the  lives  of  four  of  its 
members;  while  Longs  was  successfully  and  safely  assaulted  by  the 
persistent  Byers  and  his  friends  in  1 868. 

Mt.  Meeker,  an  immediate  neighbor  of  Longs  and  second  only 
to  it  in  altitude  (13,900)  as  the  loftiest  peak  of  Northern  Colorado, 
also  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  famous  Swiss  peak,  the 
Weisshorn,  altitude  14,803,  said  by  many  to  be  the  noblest  peak 
of  the  Alps,  and  a  close  neighbor  of  the  Matterhorn;  and  whose  first 
ascent  in  1861,  is  so  graphically  described  by  John  Tyndall.  Both 
the  Weisshorn  and  Meeker  are  pyramids,  each  having  three  faces, 
and  in  this  respect  bear  great  resemblance.  The  sharp  apex  of 
Meeker  scarcely  more  than  allows  the  occupancy  of  but  one  person, 
while  Longs,  altho  very  roughly  surfaced,  has  an  area  of  several  acres. 


LONGS  PEAK 


With  thy  snowy  robes 
And  Head  of  Glory! 

Mighty  Matterhorn! 
Emerge  in  thy  supernal  beauty 

From  the  cave  of  Night, 
As  Day  pours  the  scarlet  blood  of  Dawn 

O'er  thine  altars  white. 
Thus,  with  the  sacrificial  rite  of  Morn, 

The  great  Oberland  is  wakened; 
The  Starry  Hosts  their  torches  snuff, 

And  swift  the  Loft  of  Heaven  do  ascend. 
Comes  now  the  Sun,  who  crowns  thy  lofty  brow 

With  glitt'ring  gold; 
And  names  thee  Sov'reign  Lord 

O'er  legioned  peaks  and  ranges  bold. 

219 


Thou! 

With  thy  snowy  robes 

And  Head  of  Glory! 

Inarticulate  One! 
On  which  a  thousand  tempest  driving  ages 

Fade  as  a  breath, 
And  ne'er  in  a  million  stone-gnawing  years 

Will  suffer  death. 
Thine  is  the  awful  sovereignty 

Of  Silence  dumb — 
Creation's  birth-cries  congealed 

Stone  and  granite  become. 
To  which  the  plunging  avalanches, 

Thundering  down  thy  riven  slopes, 
Are  but  the  sweat-drip  of  constricting  muteness, 

Throttling  Expression's  hopes. 

Thou! 

With  thy  snowy  robes 

And  Head  of  Glory! 

God-hewn  Obelisk! 
Reign  on,  Serenity,  above  the  canopied  clouds, 

To  thine  appointed  end; 
And  thru  the  abysmal  eons  of  Time, 

With  storm,  earthquake,  and  frost  still  contend. 
Vast,  Promethean-bound  pile, 

Yet  clank  the  unyielding  chains  of  Gravity. 
And  when  at  last,  for  the  fashioning  of  other  worlds, 

Loosed  from  captivity, 

Explode,  each  unpopped  granule  of  thy  huge  disin 
tegrating  mass, 

To  finest  dust — 
Screaming  the  pent-up  agony  of  the  unnumbered  years, 

And  scatt'ring  nebulous. 


220 


ROSY  EAST 


A 'ROSS  the  dim  streaked  sky  she  comes; 
Queen  of  my  heart — the  Glory  Maid. 
Her  Titianed  tresses  bright  she  combs, 
And  soft  the  winds  her  robes  invade. 
I  love  you — love  you! 
Maid  of  Dawn, 
Rosy  East. 

The  dewy  morn  smells  sweet  of  rose. 
The  sky-lark  flies  to  greet  my  Love. 
The  mountains  flush  their  gleaming  snows, 
And  low  coos  now  the  wakened  dbve. 
I  love  you — love  you! 
Blushing  One, 
Rosy  East. 

Blushed  to  thy  lips,  ye  beauteous  One, 
Thy  kisses  woo  and  wake  the  world; 
And  for  the  wreck  of  storms  atone, 
That  thru  the  night  wild  winds  have  hurled. 
I  love  you — love  you! 
Kiss  me  sweet, 
Rosy  East. 

Embrace  me,  Love,  before  the  Sun's  stern  eye 
Doth  rim  the  mountain  dark  and  mount  the  sky. 
Embrace  me,  Love.     Press  close  thy  rosy  form 
About  me  myrrhed— And  then,  farewell — She's  gone. 
I  love  you — love  you! 
Speed  return, 
Rosy  East. 


221 


At  the  entrance  of  Wild  Basin,  as  the  great  upper  gorge  of  the 
North  St.  Vrain  is  familiarly  known,  and  at  a  point  where  the  State 
road  crosses  the  above  named  stream,  lies  Copeland  Lake,  one  of  the 
beauty  spots  of  the  Front  Range  of  the  Rockies.  It  is  a  small  but 
beautiful  body  of  water  surrounded  by  a  forest  of  yellow  pine,  and 
is  famous  for  its  perfect  reflection  of  the  great  central  peak  of  the 
Basin — Mt.  Clarence  King,  named  by  William  Skinner  Cooper 
when  he  made  the  first  authentic  map  of  the  Basin  in  1908;  in  honor 
of  the  first  director  of  the  United  States  Geological  Survey,  who  ran 
the  40th  parallel  of  latitude  a  few  miles  to  the  north  of  this  peak. 
The  settler's  name  for  this  peak  is  Mt.  Copeland,  named  after  the 
pioneer  of  that  name. 


MT.  CLARENCE  KING  FROM  COPELAND  LAKE 

BEETLING  Ortler! 
Vast  bulked  and  reared — 

Above  thy  shaggy  taurian  haunches — 
Against  the  Continental  range. 
Snow  headed  Bull  of  Wild  Basin's 
Horned  alp  herd — wild,  chill  winds 
Bellow  thine  eternal  challenge. 

Brooding  Ortler! 

Deep  sunk  in  the  dusky  starred  distances 

Of  the  all  embosoming  Night — 

Soft  repose  thine  alpine  beauty  till  the 

Morn  beams  its  golden  glory  light; 
Then,  lifting  high  thy  snowy  head  above 

The  mist  streaming  pastures  of  the  skies, 
Peer,  with  glist'ning  horn,  into  this  mirroring 

Pool,  thy  flushed,  dawn-awakened  eyes. 


The  predominate  force  in  winter  in  the  Longs  Peak  oberland  is 
Boreas.  Ordinary  gales,  of  from  twenty  to  sixty  miles  per  hour, 
sometimes  blow  for  days  at  a  time  and  are  little  thought  of.  How 
ever,  perhaps  from  four  to  six  times  a  year,  and  from  October  till 
May,  occur — what  are  termed  by  the  mountaineers — maximum 
gales,  meaning  winds  that  attain  extreme  maximum  velocities,  and 
which  reach  a  force  of  sixty  miles  an  hour  and  upwards. 

The  greatest  wind  velocity  on  record  in  Colorado,  filed  in  the 
office  of  the  U.  S.  Weather  Bureau  in  Denver,  is  that  made  in  1893 
on  the  summit  of  Pikes  Peak— 1 12  miles  per  hour;  and  from  the  fact 
that  records  as  high  as  79  miles  per  hour  have  been  made  at  the 
Agricultural  College  in  Fort  Collins  on  the  Great  Plains,  it  is  quite 

222 


probable  that  in  the  mountains,  depending  upon  the  altitude  and 
exposure,  these  maximum  gales  attain  at  times,  the  frightful  velocity 
of  100  miles  per  hour. 

The  greatest  wind  velocities  on  record  in  the  United  States,  are 
those  recorded  in  the  files  of  the  U.  S.  Weather  Bureau  in  Washing 
ton,  D.  C.,  and  are  as  follows: 

Cape  Hatteras,  N.  C . .  105  miles  per  hour. 

Pikes  Peak,  Colo 112     « 

Point  Reyes  Light,  Cal 120    « 

Mt.  Washington,  N.  H 186    « 

The  latter  record,  made  on  the  summit  of  Mt.  Washington,  N. 
H.  (altitude  6,290  feet),  January  1 1,  1878,  was  not  obtained  from  a 
self-recording  apparatus,  but  from  an  anemometer  exposed  tempor 
arily,  and  the  velocity  determined  from  the  dial  readings,  and  is 
considered  approximately  correct.  Upon  another  occasion,  January 
3,  1883,  and  at  the  same  station,  a  velocity  of  180  miles  was  clearly 
recorded. 

When  these  winds  coincide  with  wet  or  frost  seeping  ground,  the 
trees,  having  less  secure  roothold  in  the  soft  soil,  are  uprooted  in 
whole  rows  and  ranks. 

Also  the  settler,  being  forced  to  maintain  heavy  fires  to  counteract 
the  cold  being  driven  with  terrific  suction  thru  every  chink  and 
crevice  of  his  habitation,  is  more  or  less  terrorized  by  the  danger  of 
fire;  which,  when  once  started,  his  efforts  of  slight  avail  against  the 
fury  of  the  wind,  destroys  his  cabin  with  frightful  ravage,  forcing 
him  to  flee  for  his  life  into  the  howling  elements  outside. 


MAXIMUM  GALES 

HIGH  on  the  polared  rim  of  western  peaks 
The  flying  of  light  snow — 
As  off  the  house  eaves  it  in  winter  sifts 
Driv'  by  the  blizzard's  blow — 
Gives  warning  to  the  shepherd's  anxious  eye, 

Of  gale  quick  to  expect — 
Fiercest  venom  of  war-mad  Boreas 
Mustering  his  elect. 

Soon  the  upper  naked  slopes  are  welt'ring 

In  vast  swirls  of  the  icy  dust; 
And  first  faint  tremors  of  timber-line  trees 

Give  witness  of  descending  gust. 
Wild  now — steep-sloped,  and  sharp,  tooth-snagged 

Meeker  writhes  in  the  fury  of  the  gale; 
And  the  white  shoulders  of  quiv'ring  Battle 

Shudder,  as  'fore  the  blast  they  quail. 

223 


Come  now,  the  first  keen  shrieks  of  agony 

From  the  far  woodland's  upper  ranks, 
As  the  dread  monster,  scourging  pack  and  steed, 

Bursts  foamed  upon  the  deep  wood's  flanks. 
And  as  the  blood-curdling  note  of  dire  conflict 

Sounds  weird  from  the  gnarled  vet'rans  of  timber-line  , 
The  whole  defiant,  strong-limbed  forest  yells 

In  battle  fury,  and  its  ranks  combine. 

When  all  his  maliced  fuming  regiments, 

Full  accoutered  and  fierce,  are  thus  engaged, 
The  bellowing  Wind  Lord — as  one  hurls  bowls — 

From  topmost  heights,  darts  whirls,  in  his  mad  rage, 
That  ever  gaining  speed,  rend  serried  ranks 

Of  combatants,  as  cannon-shot  mow  men; 
And  which,  gathering  in  their  cycloned  flight 

Fine  snow,  fling  it  in  clouds  as  they  descend. 

Three  fearful  surging  wave  crests,  like  Ocean, 

Surfing  madly  on  reef  and  stagg'ring  shore, 
Descend  in  constant  pounding  succession, 

And  break  upon  the  wood  with  deaf 'ning  roar. 
Vast,  strangling  vacuums  scream  and  serpent  hiss, 

As  they,  in  wild  writhing  spirals  eddy, 
Like  whirling  Dervishes;  swerving  off  in 

Weird  fantastic  tangent,  and  unsteady, 
As  eerie  phantoms,  swoon  in  blinding  snow, 

Tearing  and  stripping  tree  boughs  as  they  go. 
Aerial  wind  bombs,  explode  and  burst, 

As  tho  rending  the  atmosphere  in  fragments; 
And  frightful  pauses  hover,  as  tho  a  foe 

Pushed  back,  poises  for  resistless  augment. 
Wind  whiffs,  as  gut-tasseled  whips  that  flay,  crack— 

Pistol-like,  at  the  instant  touch  of  impact. 

Death  embraced  now,  the  frenzied  warriors 

Weave  to  and  fro  on  every  snow  whirled  slope. 
The  Vale,  from  highest  wind-lashed  crag  to  low, 

Mews  and  sickens  as  the  heaved  armies  cope. 
Limbs,  trunks,  and  vitals  smoking,  strew  the  ground, 

Where  Boreas'  spleened  legions  fiercest  melled; 
And  low  drooped,  the  wailing  forest  conquered 

Bends  sullen  'neath  the  spoiler's  storm-wrecked  spell. 

224 


The  devoted  Hut,  the  one  lone  fortress 

That  still  defies  the  air  careening  crew, 
Tho  shaking  vibrant  in  the  awful  mell, 

Yet  pours  its  smoke  defiant  thru  its  flue. 
Inside — the  forest  here  claims  victory, 

By  its  pitched  logs  flaming  in  deepest  roar; 
And  its  red  fires,  leaping  forth  exultant, 

Seize  beard  of  Boreas  and  burn  him  sore. 

Deep  in  sand  and  gravel  he  digs  his  claws, 

And  it  in  fury  flings  upon  the  glass. 
At  eave  and  pane  in  vain  he  gasping  tugs, 

To  ope'  and  scatter  hut  in  broken  mass. 
But  stout  it  wrestles  sturdy,  and  at  last 

He  from  it  headlong,  daunted,  doth  him  cast, 
And  turns,  envenomed,  once  more  on  landscape 

The  enraged  mouthings  of  his  cruel  blast. 

Hours,  sometimes  days,  of  this  nerve-racked  weather, 

Doth  the  far  dweller  in  the  mountains  live. 
Cramming  his  hottest  fires  with  stoutest  logs, 

To  subdue  the  cold  arctic  breaths  that  drive 
E'en  thru  smallest  cracks  in  deep  weathered  slab, 

That  close,  double-lapped,  hold  the  windward  walls. 
When  thru — the  dread  conflicting  el'ments  still — 

He  on  his  cot  oft  quite  exhausted  falls. 

Maximum  Gales!    Oh,  how  modest  the  tale 

To  soft  ears,  that  ne'er  kenned  the  fearful  blast. 
Swirled — world-high  tides,  one  hundred  miles  an  hour — 

The  dread  winds  of  winter  on  cabin  cast; 
Tuned  to  all  noises  diabolical, 

That  tooth-grinding  crazed  Boreas  can  gnash; 
And  embittered  Winter,  fury  consumed 

By  thoughts  of  Spring's  nighsome  'proach,  can  compass. 

Sweet  tho,  the  ineffable  stillness 

That  steals  somnolent  o'er  the  battered  land; 
When  once  the  blasting  fury  of  the  winds 

Hath  sunk  to  the  soft  zephyr,  kissing  hand. 
And  true  it  is,  that  they  who've  dared,  and  climbed, 

And  nested,  pure,  among  these  lofty  heights, 
Tho  bearing  in  their  souls  the  wounds  of  battle, 

Yet  live  knowing — Oh,  sweetest  thought — God  requites! 

225 


THE  NIGHT  LOG 


r~ITiHE  night  log  is  on  and  aflame. 
I        The  one  lone  fire  of  many  a  mountain  mile. 

Star  of  the  wilderness — Men  to  reconcile. 
And  I,  musing,  breathe  many  a  sacred  name. 

The  night  log  is  on  and  aflame. 

One  red  fire,  sparking  the  hours  of  the  passing  night. 

Sign  to  other  worlds  of  a  universalite. 
And  I,  musing,  breathe  many  a  sacred  name. 

The  night  log  is  on  and  aflame. 

The  lone  wolf  at  midnight  sounds  his  hungry  howl. 

Weird  from  the  gloomy  wood  hoots  the  hunting  owl. 
And  I,  musing,  breathe  many  a  sacred  name. 

The  night  log  is  on  and  aflame. 

Morn's  angels,  star  crowned,  have  set  their  glittering 

watch. 
Fast    the    wide    wheeling    constellations    westward 

march. 
And  I,  musing,  breathe  many  a  sacred  name. 

The  night  log  is  on  and  aflame. 

And  I,  musing,  breathe  many  a  sacred  name 
Of  them  who  battled  dauntless  with  the  World's  disdain, 
And  mingle  now  their  glory  bright  with  Heaven's  train. 


226 


One  of  the  most  interesting  nature  sculpturings  in  Estes  Park  is 
known  as  the  Mummy.  The  face  is  visible  from  almost  every  view 
point  in  the  Park,  and  when  once  fairly  distinguished,  the  eye  reverts 
to  it  with  ever  increasing  fascination.  It  occupies  a  prominent 
space  in  the  sky-line  on  the  northwest  rim  of  the  Park,  and  forms  a 
portion  of  Hagues  Peak.  A  constant  change  of  expression  is  to  be 
noticed  in  the  weird  countenance  as  the  snows  begin  to  melt  in  the 
spring,  and  clouds,  mists,  moonshine,  sunlight,  and  shadow,  contin 
ually  affect  it. 

THE  MUMMY 

BEHOLD! 
The  Mummy! 

Inscrutable  countenance! 
Forever  staring  askance 
Of  relentless  sky. 

Calm  eyed, 
Benign  Face! 

We  deem  you  beautiful. 

Gazing,  brave — steadfastful, 
On  eternity. 

Star  jew'lled, 
Queenly  Head! 

Bridal  veiled  'mong  fleecy  mist. 

Sleeping — dream  of  lips  you've  kissed. 
Dead — let  them  also  die. 


227 


BEAUTIFUL  ISLES  OF  SKY 


I  AM  sitting  alone 
By  my  wild  mountain  home, 
And  my  heart  ever  yields  a  sigh; 
As  I  gaze  on  those  clouds, 
High  above  the  world  crowds. 
Beautiful  Isles  of  Sky. 

They  are  drifting  today 

On  that  far  azure  way; 

And  my  dreams  ever  rise  on  high; 

To  those  mansions  so  bright 

In  the  regions  of  light. 

Beautiful  Isles  of  Sky. 

Deep  the  low  setting  sun 
Turns  them  gold  and  crimson; 

My  thoughts  turn  to  hopes  as  they  ply. 
Oh,  fair  ships  of  the  air, 

My  fond  fancies  ye  bear. 
Beautiful  Isles  of  Sky. 

Some  sweet  day  I  will  speed 

On  some  air- winging  steed; 
To  this  world  I  will  say  goodbye; 

And  float  over  the  seas 
In  my  Palace  of  Ease. 

Beautiful  Isles  of  Sky. 

They  are  drifting  today 

On  that  far  azure  way; 

And  my  dreams  ever  rise  on  high; 

To  those  mansions  so  bright 

In  the  regions  of  light. 

Beautiful  Isles  of  Sky. 


228 


THE  DYING  THRUSH 


NEVER  more  thy  song  will  gladden 
Verdured  dales  of  stream  and  wood. 
Never  more  thy  pipe  will  waken 
Summer's  lang'rous  flow'ring  mood. 
Bird  of  Joy!     My  heart  is  breaking, 

And  my  tears  flow  fast  in  flood. 
Oh,  ye  drooping  dying  songster, 

Know  by  these  sobs,  thou  wert  loved. 

Cruel  Hawk,  that  swooped  so  ruthless 

From  the  bright  and  sunny  sky; 
Could  ye've  known  whose  throat  ye  throttled- 

Known  what  lovely  warbler  lies, 
Bleeding  now,  among  the  grasses, 

On  the  green  and  mossy  sward; 
Ye'd  have  stayed  thy  steely  talons — 

Listened  sweet,  with  rev'rent  bard. 

How  like,  Oh  God,  Thy  fair  children, 

In  this  quick  and  mortal  world, 
Innocent,  in  laughing  gladness, 

In  the  arms  of  Death  are  hurled! 
Dying  Thrush,  thy  bosom  softly 

'Gainst  my  aching  heart  I  press; 
Token  that  there's  one  who  loves  thee — 

Who  thy  torn  form  doth  caress. 


229 


VAL  ELKANAH 


The  Vale  of  Elkanah  lies  on  the  State  road  midway  between 
Aliens  Park  and  Estes  Park.  It  is  surrounded  by  lofty  mountains 
and  has  an  elevation  of  about  9,000  feet  and  thru  it  winds  the 
historic  trail  to  the  summit  of  Longs  Peak.  It  abounds  with  bird 
and  animal  life,  and  is  celebrated  for  its  beautiful  flowers  and  also 
for  its  magnificent  cloud  and  atmospheric  effects.  It  was  originally 
settled  by  the  Rev.  E.  J.  Lamb  and  family  in  1878,  who  established 
the  first  hotel  there;  and  was  named  in  honor  of  Mr.  Lamb,  bearing 
his  first  name  "Elkanah,"  meaning  "possessed  or  loved  of  God." 

In  the  bed  of  the  Vale  are  the  homesteads  of  Elkanah  J.  Lamb, 
Enos  Mills,  Harry  Bitner,  John  Moreland,  Mary  Kirkwood,  Charles 
and  Stephen  Hewes,  and  Ella  A.  Hart. 


WEST  and  solitary  reigns  the  cloud  king — Longs, 
As  a  crowned  lord  on  high. 
And  east,  low  at  his  feet,  the  two  Sisters 
Bare  their  chaste  bosoms  to  the  sky. 
Between  them  lies  the  God  loved  Vale, 

Green,  rose-scented,  fair-smiling  as  the  morn — 
Filled  with  blooming  nymphs  and  naiads  fair, 
Dancing  to  Pan's  pipe  and  elfin  horn. 

On  northern  rim  the  virgin  peak — 

Lily's  clustering  crags — 
Rise  nut-brown  above  her  mirrored  lake 

Fringed  with  waving  flags. 
The  Cone,  majestic — sauanMike, 

Most  perfect  of  mountain  piles, 
Doth  also  rim  upon  the  north 

The  Vale's  fair  emblossomed  smiles. 

230 


Between  the  Cone  and  Longs'  dread  brow 

Lie  Battle's  corse  strewn  slopes; 
Of  tree,  and  bush,  and  grasses  slain — 

Storm-crushed  of  Life's  fair  hopes. 
Still  south,  our  Lady  Washington 

Sits  white  amid  her  snows; 
And  Meeker,  'cross  the  vast  East  Gorge, 

His  wild  and  bleak  wind  blows. 

Of  lesser  heights,  Horsetooth,  on  Meeker's  side, 

Rears  a  mighty  rock. 
And  The  Lookout,  farther  on, 

Beholds  Wild  Basin's  shagg'd  alp  flock. 
Pine  Ridge,  a  grand  green  slope, 

Lies  next  to  fire-scarred  Great  Moraine. 
And  Deer  Ridge,  to  the  far  southeast, 

Bounds  on  the  North  St.  Vrain. 

The  water-gate  to  this  beauteous  realm 

Southerly  far  swings, 
Past  Big  Owl's  mystic,  pine-clad  hill, 

And  to  the  deep  gorge  clings, 
Of  St.  Vrain's  foamed  and  bounding  flood 

Of  many  glacier  rills — 
Gorged  to  the  choke  and  lashed  to  the  froth, 

'Mong  the  plainward  hills. 

Thus  Val  Elkanah,  enthroned  and  crowned 

Among  her  snowy  lords, 
Lists  forever  to  the  Hymn  of  Nature 

Sung  in  purest  chords. 
An  Eden  of  the  Rockies, 

She  woos  man's  subtlest  nature  sense. 
And  decked  with  all  her  flow'ring  robes, 

Yields  Flora's  sweetest  incense. 


231 


ALTITUDE 


He       As  when,  from  the  heights, 

Mid  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 
One  views  among  the  mists 
The  distant  Vale  below; 
All  lovely,  green,  and  smiling, 
In  the  tender  alpenglow: 
So  I  view  Thee, 
From  my  solitude  of  years; 
And  yearning— reach  for  Thee, 
In  the  sob  of  sighs  and  tears. 

She       As  when,  from  the  depths, 
A  noble  Peak  I  view, 
Cloud-kissed,  snow-crowned, 
And  bathed  in  a  golden  hue; 
Fulfilling  all  those  fair  ideals 
I've  centered,  Love,  in  You: 
So  I  view  Thee, 

Lifting  mine  arms  toward  Thine; 
And  wond'ring  how  long,  dear  Heart, 
Till  they  with  Thine  entwine. 

Poet     Altho  'tis  not  with  beautiful  valleys, 
As  it  is  with  beautiful  souls; 
A-sighing  and  yearning  for  heights  above  them, 
The  heights  longing  for  depths  below; 
Yet  sometimes  I  think,  in  anguish  of  heart, 
Tis  the  same  with  us,  as  the  peaks  we  have 

viewed: 

The  mystery  of  lives  oft  kept  apart, 
Is  merely  a  difference  of  altitude. 


232 


The  wild,  joyous,  sky-mounting  twitter,  and  musical  whirr- 
whirr  of  dazzling  blue  wing,  with  which  the  Rocky  Mountain  blue 
bird  ushers  in  the  mountain  spring,  is  gloriously  welcome  to  the  alp 
dweller.  Often,  so  rapid  is  its  flight,  that  while  its  motion  eludes 
the  eye,  yet  it  is  distinguished  by  the  sound  of  its  keen  whirring 
wings.  From  copse  to  copse,  tree  to  tree,  crag  to  crag,  this  beautiful 
songster  flies,  long  before  the  great  winter  drifts  are  melted;  and  his 
zest  of  possession  seems  to  be  wholly  unsatiated,  until  he  encompasses 
with  his  twittering  presence,  every  loved  ledge,  nook  and  spot  in  the 
lower  and  middle  oberland.  After  the  nesting  and  brooding  season 
is  passed,  and  the  young  brood  is  strong  of  wing,  whole  families  of 
them  flock  together  in  joyous  autumn  flight,  often  accompanying 
the  pedestrian  or  other  road  traveler  for  long  distances,  as  tho  de 
lighting  in  his  company;  and  they  linger  long,  until  finally  driven 
out  by  the  keen  blasts  of  winter. 

WILD  ALP  WIND  ROARING  UP  ALOFT  AND 
WHIRR  OF  BLUEBIRD'S  WING 

THE  wind  with  wild  exultant  gusts  and  shrieks 
Leaps  into  the  Vale  from  among  the  peaks. 
And  eager  now  he  is,  to  slay  the  snow, 
As  he  in  winter  was,  it  wide  to  blow. 
With  shredding  tooth  and  tusk  into  the  drifts 
He  bites  his  way;  and  each  sunbeam  shifts, 
As  a  blow-pipe  of  golden  ray  to  smelt, 
The  frozen  fleece  to  aqua's  melt; 
Which  everywhere  in  tiny  rills  seeks 
To  find  its  way  and  run  into  the  creeks. 

Exultant  then, 

Wild  alp  wind  roaring  up  aloft 
And  whirr  of  bluebird's  wing 
Proclaim  the  passing  of  the  snow, 
And  the  coming  reign  of  Spring. 

The  greens  of  grass  now  appear  and  merge 

Their  bright  blades  with  the  shining  waters  surge. 

And  the  tender  shoots  of  wind-stirring  pine 

Into  the  balmy  air  and  sun  incline. 

The  buttercup  and  bee  sweet  alyssum 

First  peep — then  the  silken  pasque  flower  comes. 

The  catkins  of  the  canaried  willow, 

Fluff  and  tassel,  as  they  fat  plumpy  grow. 

The  sparkling  blue  of  beaver  ponds  'fleet  sky; 

Their  dams  are  fringed  with  white  violets  shy. 

233 


Exultant  then, 

Wild  alp  wind  roaring  up  aloft 
And  whirr  of  bluebird's  wing 
Proclaim  the  passing  of  the  snow, 
And  the  coming  reign  of  Spring. 

The  peaks  no  longer  blanch  in  drifting  snow, 

But  iced,  transcendent  glitter  and  bestow 

Their  sun-glint  glances  on  the  vales  below, 

And  bid  the  alpine  herbs  take  root  and  grow. 

When  the  first  warm  slants  of  sun-steaming  rain 

Douche  the  brown,  seed-sown  mountain  lands  again, 

A  myriad  of  elfin  things  appear, 

That  later,  as  the  mounting  sun  draws  near, 

Will  bud  and  burst  in  flower  blossoms  rare, 

And  all  the  summer  deck  the  meadows  fair. 

Exultant  then, 

Wild  alp  wind  roaring  up  aloft 
And  whirr  of  bluebird's  wing 
Proclaim  the  passing  of  the  snow, 
And  the  coming  reign  of  Spring. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  NIGHT 

DEEP! 
In  the  vast  canopy  of  Night 
Fade  the  peaks. 
Perched! 

As  birds  of  Titan  might 
With  breast  hid  beaks. 

Mighty  Mother! 

All  embracing  One 

Of  Sleep's  delight; 

With  tender  eyes  soft  glowing — 

Embered  coals  of  light: 
Let  me  sink  too 
In  slumber  sweet 
On  thy  gentle  breast; 
And  silent  droop  as  these  far  heights, 

In  dreamless  rest. 

234 


Mr.  Chapin,  in  1887,  speaks  of  the  great  flat-topped  mountain, 
across  which  leads  the  trail  between  Estes  and  Middle  Parks,  as  Table 
Mountain;  but  it  has,  in  more  recent  years,  been  familiarly  known  by 
the  very  appropriate  cognomen  of  Flat  Top,  altitude  (estimated) 
12,400.  There  is  probably,  and  aside  from  its  great  importance  as 
an  absolutely  commanding  mountain  pass,  no  more  interesting  alp 
in  the  Rockies  than  this  peerless  mountain;  which  resembles  nothing 
so  much  as  a  gigantic,  flat  roofed,  architectural  pile,  buttressed  with 
enormous  bastions  and  wings  of  solid  masonry.  The  tundra  verdured, 
rock  strewn,  and  comparatively  level  summit  of  this  alpine  leviathan, 
is  many  miles  in  area;  and  one  can  actually  spend  days  in  the  exami 
nation  of  its  various  connections  with  the  four  great  ranges  mentioned 
in  the  poem,  to  say  nothing  of  noting  that  myriad  animate  life 
which  swarms  its  dizzy  walls  and  canons.  Such  localities  as  the 
charming  lake  region  of  Fern  and  Odessa;  Andrews  and  Tyndall 
glaciers;  Bierstadt  and  Bear  Lakes;  and  the  Big  Meadow,  and  North 
Inlet  regions  on  the  Western  Slope,  are  all  mere  details  in  the  vast 
ramifications  of  Flat  Top.  On  the  West  slope,  one  enters  timber-line 
immediately  among  some  of  the  largest  and  finest  spruces  in  the 
Rockies;  while  on  the  East  slope,  are  miles  of  the  most  dwarfed, 
gnarled,  and  storm  battered  timber-line  growth  imaginable;  affording 
a  contrast  most  striking  and  suggestive. 

The  marvel  of  such  alpine  wilds  as  Flap  Top,  is  greatly  accentu 
ated,  when  one  realizes,  from  a  botanical  standpoint,  that  the  zone  of 
vegetation — which  is  affected  by  altitude  as  well  as  latitude — six  to 
fourteen  degrees  of  latitude  corresponding  to  two  thousand  feet  of 
altitude — which  one  traverses  in  crossing  its  summit,  is  the  sub 
arctic;  corresponding  with  that  of  northern  Labrador,  Iceland,  and 
the  arctic  circle.  The  zone  of  vegetation  on  our  highest  peaks,  such  as 
Longs,  Meeker,  and  Hagues,  is  the  arctic,  corresponding  with  that  of 
Cape  Parry  in  Greenland,  Baffin  Bay,  and  the  isles  of  the  Polar  Sea 
north  of  Alaska. 

FLAT  TOP 

r^LATTOP! 

/  *   High  plateau  of  rendezvous 

For  mighty  peaks  and  ranges  sheer: 
The  massive  Continentals, 
And  jagged,  snow-tipped  Rabbit  Ear; 
The  curving  Medicine  Bow, 
And  mystic  Mummy,  vague  and  weird; 
All,  on  this  wide  spreading  alp 
Converge,  and  high  assemble  here. 

Great  Pass! 

No  alp  in  all  the  Snow  Range 

Enjoys  such  royal  sov'reignty. 

Thou  art  an  Emperor  great, 

To  whom  snow-crowned  kings  yield  fealty. 

235 


Demanding  toll  of  each  foot 
That  would  safe  cross  from  peak  to  peak, 
Or  would  pass  from  Park  to  Park, 
Across  the  Great  Divide's  swart  beak. 

Vast  Burg! 

Tundra-roofed,  torrent-guttered, 

And  broad  eaved  with  eternal  snow; 

Which  melting,  feeds  deep  cisterns, 

Rock-scooped  in  dizzy  depths  below. 

Porticoed  on  the  West  Slope, 

With  pillared  spruce  in  columns  deep. 

And  on  the  East,  with  filigree 

Of  dwarfed  pinelings  on  wind  swept  steep. 

YON  PEAK 

ris  only  a  glimpse 
That  I  ask  of  yon  Peak, 
As  I  look  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 
To  know  that  from  it 

The  dear  Father  doth  speak — 
The  glorious  God  I  adore. 

I  behold  Him  so  fair 

In  the  rose  blush  of  morn, 
As  I  look  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 

Of  His  joy  beaming  day 
On  the  mountain  just  born, 

And  bound  for  that  far  Western  Shore. 

I  behold  Him  so  pure 

In  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
As  I  look  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 

As  it  azures  the  world 

And  the  heavens  so  high — 

Oh,  Holy  is  He  evermore! 

I  behold  Him  so  vast 

In  His  shadow  of  night, 
As  I  look  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 

As  it  darkens  the  brow 
Of  the  mountain  so  white. 

And  mantles  the  valley  high  o'er. 

236 


O 


I  behold  Him  so  bright 

In  the  beam  of  the  stars, 
As  I  look  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 

As  they  glitter  and  wheel 

Their  swift  night-coursing  cars, 

And  His  grace  I  humbly  implore. 

So  remove  me  not  hence 
From  the  sight  of  yon  Peak, 

That  I  see  from  my  ain  cottage  door; 
For  when  Life's  sands  are  low  run 

To  it  I  shall  speak, 
And  toward  it  my  spirit  shall  soar. 


MOUNTAIN  BERRIES 

N  the  steep  and  dusty  road, 
As  I  drove  up  to  the  Peak, 

I  met  a  red-cheeked  maiden,  in  whose  hands 

were 

Mountain  berries,  rare  and  sweet. 
As  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine, 

With  a  glance  that  seemed  divine, 
She  coy  proffered  me  the  fruit, 
Tho  her  scarlet  lips  kept  mute. 

Proffered  me,  even  me,  the  lone  stage  driver, 

As  I  drove  up  to  the  Peak; 

Proffered  berries,  mountain  berries,  rare  and  sweet. 

How  they  lingered  in  my  mouth, 
As  her  smile  did  in  my  soul; 

Each  berry  rare,  that  had  nestled  in  her  hand 

And  enjoyed  its  velvet  fold. 
And  she  won  my  heart  that  day, 

Won  it  quite  from  me  away; 
Won  it  surely  and  complete, 
That  it  almost  ceased  to  beat. 

E'en  for  me,  even  me,  the  lone  stage  driver, 

As  I  drove  up  to  the  Peak; 

Won  with  berries,  mountain  berries,  rare  and  sweet. 

237 


j^ 


And  they  said  her  name  was  Ruth  — 
Ruth,  the  faithful,  lovely  Ruth, 

Named  for  the  sweetest  woman  of  the  Bible  — 

Ruth,  the  gleaner,  tender  Ruth. 
And  how  now  it  thrills  my  soul, 
As  when  past  that  spot  I  roll, 
To  know  that  she,  even  she, 

Had  there  gleaned  the  fields  for  me. 

E'en  for  me,  even  me,  the  lone  stage  driver, 

As  I  drove  up  to  the  Peak; 

Gleaned  red  berries,  mountain  berries,  rare  and  sweet. 

THE  SUN  SHINES  BRIGHT  ON  LILY'S  MOUNT 

An  evening  effect  to  be  observed  in  the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  is  the 
shining  of  the  sun  on  Lily  Mountain  long  after  it  has  set  in  the  Vale 
itself. 

sun  shines  bright  on  Lily's  mount 
Where  soft  my  fancy  dwells. 
I  vow  I'll  climb  her  gentle  slopes 
Among  the  wild  bluebells. 

Her  feet  are  hid  in  forest  green 

Where  springs  the  columbine. 
Her  robes  are  made  of  shining  mists 

Which  soft  her  form  entwine. 

She  kneels  before  a  mirrored  pool 

And  combs  her  golden  hair; 
While  all  her  rosy  breast  is  filled 

With  clust'ring  lilies  fair. 

Ah  me!     Sweet  wood  nymph,  how  I  sigh, 

To  nestle  in  thine  arms. 
I'd  lay  me  down  to  sleep  among 

Thy  soft  sequestered  charms. 

I'd  fold  about  me  as  a  robe 

Thy  golden  tresses  fair. 
I'd  woo  thine  every  dimpling  blush 

And  'joy  thy  charms  most  rare. 

The  sun  shines  bright  on  Lily's  mount 

Where  soft  my  fancy  dwells. 
I  vow  I'll  climb  her  gentle  slopes 

Among  the  wild  bluebells. 

238 


Three  beautiful  species  of  trout,  rainbow,  eastern  broof^,  and  notice , 
the  two  former  being  importations,  the  first  a  native  of  Alaskan, 
Californian,  and  Pacific  waters,  and  the  second  from  New  England, 
inhabit  and  thrive  in  the  mountain  waters  of  Northern  Colorado. 
The  rainbow  haunt  the  lower  caflons,  the  natives  the  uppermost  and 
coldest  waters  issuing  from  the  glaciers,  and  the  zone  between  is 
occupied  by  the  eastern 


SONG  OF  THE  TROUT 


MY  song  to  the  world  is  motion — 
The  sheen  of  my  body  light; 
Its  exquisite  colors  flashing, 
Thru  clear  waters  sparkling  bright. 
In  the  sun's  effulgent  glory 
I  take  my  watery  flight, 
O'er  the  shining  sands  of  mountains 

Set  in  pebbles  crystallite. 
I  leap  and  bound  ecstatic 

In  the  sluicing  torrent's  foam; 
I  glide  and  lurk  prismatic 

In  my  turquoised  lakelet  home. 

I  flash  in  glint  impulsion 

My  flexed  form  of  rosy  pearl. 
I  gleam  the  Hymn  of  Ocean 

In  the  riffles'  fleecy  whirl. 
Beneath  the  willow  catkins, 

And  the  dogwood's  honeyed  bud, 
I  dart  the  waving  shadows, 

And  swift  fleet  the  shallows'  scud. 
I  chant  a  sacred  paean 

Of  holiest  devotion; 
With  dolphined  form  and  beauty, 

Voiced  in  seraphic  motion. 


239 


A  phenomenon  peculiar  to  the  Vale  of  Elkanah  has  been  named 
by  the  inhabitants,  the  Peak  Bird;  a  remarkable  cloud  formation, 
which  with  head  pointed  towards  Longs  Peak  and  body  poised  over 
the  Vale  itself,  and  with  wide  spreading  pinions  covering  miles 
of  sky  north  and  south  and  beautifully  feathered  with  cumulo-stratus, 
resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a  gigantic  fowl.  At  times  it  is  headless 
and  the  body  is  merged  into  its  wings,  but  often  the  complete  birdlike 
formation  is  easily  distinguished.  Another  feature  of  this  interesting 
phenomenon  is  its  marvelous  coloring,  being  gorgeously  hued  at 
times  with  rose,  lavender,  and  orange,  the  sun  often  forming  a  portion 
of  the  head,  and  when  close  to  the  rim  of  the  cloud,  radiating  the 
prismatic  colors  thru  its  delicate  tissues. 


THE  PEAK  BIRD 


MYSTIC  fowl!     Gigantic — vast  and  weird  shape! 
Yet  airy  formed  of  light  and  floating  cloud. 
Hovering,  as  the  fabled  Roc  of  old, 
Billowing  leagues  of  mountain  to  o'ershroud. 

In  early  dawn,  thy  mighty  mistlike  wings 
Rise  dim  and  vasty  from  the  vapored  night. 

And  lofty  soaring  the  star  lamped  world  vault, 
Greet,  morn-bedewed,  the  Sun-god's  golden  light. 

All  day  thy  eidered  bosom  rides  the  sky, 
Tranquil  swimming  turquoise  seas  of  ether. 

Below,  the  Continental  ranges  high 

Lie  veiled  beneath  thy  luminous  shadow. 

You're  brooding  there,  this  afternoon,  great  Auk, 

Of  Nature's  creation,  what  mystery? 
To  descend  with  the  setting  sun  and  hatch, 

By  night,  what  wondrous  egg  of  alchemy? 


240 


THE  WILD  WHITE  WILDERNESS 

WHITE,  funereal,  spreads  the  winter  night, 
Under  the  pale  moon's  beam. 
The  pines,  ghostly  hooded  with  snows  so  white, 
Nod  in  the  silent  bream. 
Dark,  unearthly — weird  shadows  shroud  the  sight; 

And  stars  do  coldly  gleam 
Their    diamond    sparks    on   frost-helmed,    ice-mailed 

heights 
Stern  wardering  the  scene. 

'  Twould  seem  that  a  soul  born  of  holiness, 

On  wing  to  Paradise, 
Were  soft  crossing  the  wild  white  wilderness, 

To  mount  the  silent  skies. 

I  KNOW  A  PLACE 

1KNOW  a  place  where  fairies  throng, 
In  a  sylvan,  verdured  grove; 
Where  thrushes  pipe  their  vesper  song, 
And  elves  and  wood  nymphs  rove. 

I  know  a  place  where  orchids  grow, 
And  ferns  most  delicate  and  rare; 

Where  the  wildest  winds  that  ever  blow 
Ne'er  reach  this  bosky  dell  so  fair. 

I  know  a  place  where  a  little  fawn 

Is  hid  by  its  mother  deer; 
And  too,  where  speckled  beauties  spawn, 

In  a  lakelet  bright  and  clear. 

I  know  a  place  where  a  boulder  rests, 

That  conceals  an  ousel's  nest; 
And  where  a  spruce  so  boughed  and  tall, 

One  there  a  home  could  neat  install. 

241 


Yet  of  all  the  spots  that  I  love  best— 
Of  purest  thoughts  and  sweetest  rest, 

It  is  my  own  unworthy  soul, 
Where  Christ  shines  in  His  aureole. 


THE  TWIN  SISTERS 

FROM  Longmont's  green  alfalfa  plains 
To  Loveland's  fields  of  rye, 
A  noble  mountain  rears  its  crest, 
And  fills  the  western  sky. 
Twin  peaks  of  brown  their  heads  upraise 

Into  a  sky  serene. 
Between — a  handsome  saddle  rests 
On  heights  of  shining  green. 

A  plowman  named  these  noble  peaks, 

As  from  the  valley's  depths 
He  stayed  his  steaming  steeds  anon, 

And  gazed  up  to  the  heights. 
"Oh  sweet  repose,"  he  sighed  as  oft 

As  from  his  toil  he  rested; 
And  gazed  upon  those  summits  grand, 

Which  seemed  heav'nly  invested. 

And  ever  and  afar  it  spread, 

This  plowman's  inspiration. 
"Oh  sweet  repose,"  the  valleys  cried — 

Whole  cities  sang  the  anthem. 
"Oh  sweet  repose,"  the  maidens  sing, 

As  up  this  mount  they  clamber; 
Toward  that  gold  and  gleaming  West 

In  which  their  fancy  wanders. 

"Oh  sweet  repose,"  the  mother  sighs, 

And  soft  her  babe  caresses; 
As  into  the  rest  and  into  the  West, 

The  Twin  Sisters  sink  their  tresses. 
"Oh  sweet  repose,"  cries  all  the  soul, 

As  full  weary  of  its  labors, 
It  passes  life — all,  and  letting  it  fall, 

Sinks  soft  in  the  tender  shadows. 


242 


THE  WINGED  REGIMENT 


DIM  discerned, 
Thru  the  March  eve's  vap'rous  dusk 
Flies  the  winged  regiment  forward. 
Led  by  the  great  gander  in  plumed  busk, 
The  troop  in  glory  rushes  northward. 


Devoted  flock- 
Swift  winging  thus,  thy  Maker  glorify. 
Piercing,  arrow-like, 
In  living  point,  the  northern  sky. 
Fly  ye  on, 

Exultant  honking  brood,  to  arctic  tides! 
And  we  below — 

Viewing  awesomely  thy  pinioned  might — 
Are  first  inspired 

By  the  grandeur  of  the  glorious  sight, 
Then  sunk  in  deepest  prayer 
To  Him  who  guides  thy  flight. 


The  wild  goose  of  North  America,  in  its  spring  and  fall  migrations, 
often  feeds  enroute,  in  the  scores  of  reservoirs  and  lakes  in  the  Great 
Plains  region  immediately  adjacent  to  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies  and 
eastward.  Occasionally,  however,  a  flock  of  these  magnificent 
voyagers  can  be  seen  by  the  mountaineer,  flying  directly  parallel  with 
the  Main  Range  at  altitudes  of  from  1 0,000  to  1 2,000  feet. 


243 


THE  CABIN 


STOUT  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone, 
Resisting  firm  the  winter  storm; 
Built  of  good  logs  from  spruce-clad  hills, 
Floored  with  tough  plank  from  brookside  mills. 

Stout  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone, 

Example  true  of  sweetest  home; 
E'en  tho  it  be  but  nest  of  mouse, 

More  freedom  far  than  royal  house. 

Stout  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone. 

Many  a  strange  guest  here  hath  roamed — 
Ye've  sheltered  snug  and  comfort  warmed, 

And  sped  away  with  pleasure  charmed. 

Stout  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone, 

I  love  ye  best  when  we're  alone, 
Save  for  the  angels  who  visit  us, 

Praising  our  Lord — His  holiness. 

Stout  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone — 

Not  that  we're  selfish  here  alone, 
But  when  so,  the  whole  world  is  here— 

Spirit's  past— present,  with  their  cheer. 

Stout  little  roof  and  hearth  of  stone, 

Stand  long  here  after  I  am  gone. 
Stand  for  the  truths  we  have  confessed; 

Stand  for  our  God  and  Gospel  blessed. 


244 


UP!    UP-INTO  THE  BLUE 


J  }ELOW  the  clouds  we  stand,  my  Love  and  I, 
jj    High  on  the  mountain's  side,  yet  far  to  go; 

To  still  attain  the  Great  Peak's  summit  high, 
That  stands  to  us  as  Life's  uncertain  goal. 

Up!    Up — into  the  blue, 

Dear  Heart,  with  You. 
Courage  now,  and  forward  true; 

And  towards  the  snowy  peak,  and  God — 

Our  quest  pursue. 

Among  the  clouds  we  grope,  my  Love  and  I, 
Lost — 'mong  the  mists  that  thick  our  way  bestrew. 
No  light,  save  our  deathless  trust,  dear  Lord,  in  You. 
Blind,  we  foot  the  steep  way  and  onward  hew. 

Up!    Up — into  the  blue, 

Dear  Heart,  with  You. 
Falter  not,  nor  fear  the  view. 

And  towards  the  snowy  peak,  and  God — 

Our  quest  pursue. 

Above  the  clouds  we  stand,  my  Love  and  I, 
On  the  Great  Peak's  perilous  summit  we; 
Prone — full  spent  with  toil  on  the  weary  way, 
Yet  illumed — absolved,  we  kneel,  adoring  Thee. 

Up!     Up — into  the  blue, 

Dear  Lord,  to  You. 
Forsake  us  not,  and  renew 

Ever  our  faith  in  Thee,  our  God — 

We  humbly  sue. 


245 


THE  FLEECES 


'  I  ^HE  fleeces  are  crossing  the  Vale  today, 
£       Passing  the  range  in  white  array. 

Beautiful  ships  of  sky  are  they, 
Breasting  the  blue  in  serenity. 

And  I  fancy  the  same  of  you,  dear  friend, 
Who,  like  these  beautiful  ships  of  sky, 

Have  been  wafted  into  my  vale  of  life, 
And  your  loveliness  fair  I  glorify. 

Warm  red  of  your  heart  you  have  given  me; 

Snowy  white  of  your  soul  you  have  brought. 
And  sweet  reigns  the  spell  of  your  purity, 

In  fragrant  memory,  action,  and  thought. 

And  whenever  the  fleeces  are  crossing, 
As  they  will  when  you're  far  away, 

I'll  waft  my  love  in  their  bosom, 
Friend,  to  you,  on  that  beautiful  day. 


246 


Perhaps  the  most  active  builder  in  the  middle  obcrland  is  the 
American  beaver,  Castor  canadensis,  who  has  long  enjoyed  the  pro 
tection  of  the  State.  In  Horseshoe,  Moraine,  and  Bartholf  Parks, 
Meeker  Basin,  Grand  Lake,  and  other  points,  considerable  colonies 
have  long  been  established;  and  their  workings,  ancient  and  present, 
are  very  much  in  evidence  on  most  of  the  snow  brooks  issuing  from 
the  glaciers.  The  usual  aspect  of  a  settlement  is  a  series  of  ponds, 
formed  by  dams  made  of  brush,  small  sticks,  and  the  logs  of  aspen — 
felled  by  the  sharp  incisors  of  the  beaver  themselves — which  these 
interesting  workers  erect  at  chosen  points,  successfully  retarding  the 
swift  course  of  the  stream  to  a  sluggish  flow  sufficient  to  permit 
manipulation  at  the  will  of  the  worker.  The  ponds  thus  dammed  and 
formed,  are  usually  connected  by  the  workers  with  a  system  of  canals 
and  waterways,  allowing  free  water  passage  to  all  points,  often  pene 
trating  to  a  considerable  degree  the  bottom  of  a  declivity  or  gully, 
which  are  used  for  the  floating  and  rafting  of  those  logs,  which  the 
animals  have  cut  on  the  near  hillside  either  for  dam  or  food  purposes, 
the  latter  consisting  mostly  of  the  bark  of  the  aspen  and  willow. 
At  the  strategic  point  in  their  ponds,  they  erect  log  and  mud  houses 
with  subaqueous  entrances,  which  by  reason  of  their  being  surrounded 
by  water  in  the  summer  time  and  incased  in  ice  in  winter,  protect 
them  from  predatory  beasts.  Both  Miss  Bird  and  Mr.  Chapin,  in 
their  respective  books,  make  considerable  mention  of  beaver;  and 
"Mountain  Jim"  Nugent  trapped  them  in  considerable  numbers. 
Tradition  indicates  the  presence  of  ancient  trappers  attracted  to  these 
parts  by  the  beaver,  and  long  before  the  times  of  the  miners,  when 
fur  was  the  coveted  spoil  of  the  Western  wilderness. 

THE  BEAVER 

IN  Winter's  thrall,  the  ice-bound 
And  ponded  beaver, 

In  hut  of  mud  and  sticks 

Framed  by  his  deft  weaver, 
Sleeps,  seal-like,  upon  his  shelf 

Smoothly  worn  and  low; 
Or  hungered,  flops  in  his 

'Neath  hut  pool  of  water, 
And  ent'ring  canal  of 

Outer  pond,  seeks  fodder: 
Bark — stript  from  his  stores 

Of  aspen  poles  and  willow. 

247 


And  if  green  soft  succulence 

He  craves,  and  fresher, 
He  scours  bottom  of  the  pond 

For  roots  and  osier. 
While,  blue-arched,  above  his 

Little  world  of  water, 
Vaults  gleamed  crystal  span 

Of  ice — most  noble  harbor; 
Which,  in  the  outer  world, 

Forms  white  floor  of  winter; 
Tread  by  howling  coyote,  wolf, 

And  ravened  cougar; 
Whose  blood  lust  eyes,  fierce 

On  devoted  hut  doth  hunger; 
Raging  at  the  thought,  that  few 

Feet  or  so,  just  under, 
Their  coveted  prey,  safe  from  cruel 

Slaughter,  soft  slumbers. 

By  the  bright  sun,  thru  the 

Icy  roof  impelling 
Rays  of  purest  gold; 

By  swift  waters  swelling, 
The  wise  water-worker, 

Castored  beaver,  peeping, 
Knows  that  Winter's  reign  is  past, 

And  Spring  is  bringing 
Wealth  of  flashing  waters  bright, 

And  flood  impending; 
Which  means  to  him  labors  fast 

Of  hut  and  dam  mending. 
With  shiv'ring  crash,  the  pond  ice 

Roof  falls,  and  floating, 
Sinks  beneath  the  sun, 

To  sparkling  aqua  melting. 
Released,  the  Castors,  alert 

For  foe  close  lurking, 
By  night  and  day  labor; 

And  the  swift  stream  wending, 
Is  safe  harnessed  sure, 

To  the  mere  point  of  tending. 


248 


And  presently  the  mother 

Beaver,  glad  bearing, 
Shows  to  her  mate  sleek  pups; 

Who,  keen  water  sporting, 
Splash  and  tumble  tiny  pond 

In  wavelets  flashing; 
And  sedged  canals  and  waterways, 

With  gay  dashing. 
Deep  with  greens  of  pregnant  June 

The  dams  are  verdured. 
The  shining  rippling  ponds, 

Of  pure  snow-melts  filtered, 
Brim,  sapphire-sparkling,  their 

Grassy  rims,  flower  lipped; 
As  bright  nectar  flowing 

Cups  of  Oceanus, 
ProfFed  to  his  uncle, 

Purple  arching  Uranus. 

Tall  spruce  and  slender  pines 

Their  reflections  incline 
Into  these  green  edged  mirrors, 

Set  in  gold  sunshine; 
And  summer  moons,  shimmering 

In  molten  silver, 
Flood  the  breezed  soft-lapping 

Pools  in  nocturne  quiver. 
While  the  star-coals, 

Glowing  in  the  ashes  of  Night, 
Gleam — fire  eyed,  into  these 

Cisterns,  with  ruddy  light. 
And  sweet — thru  the  'luptuous 

Season — germ,  birth,  growth — 
The  shy  Castor's  isled 

Castle  and  flooded  moat 
Resound  with  glad  songs 

Of  nesting  and  brooding  bird; 
And  oft  the  brimming  ponds 

With  flashing  fins  are  stirred. 

249 


Red  mapling  autumn  at  last 

Appears,  to  quicken 
Sun-langored  Castor,  to  cut  his 

Crop  of  aspen; 
And  mid  the  blood-tingling 

Frosts  of  night,  he  hastens, 
Steel-keened  incisors 

And  levered  jaw  to  fasten, 
'Gainst  trembling  trunk  and  stem, 

In  squat  muscling  action; 
And  quick  felled  to  earth  they  are, 

In  toppling  fashion. 
Bough  trimmed  next — then  severed 

In  short  lengths  for  rafting. 

Then,  with  every  outlying 

Guard  in  quick  suspense, 
Food  hoarding  Castor,  with 

True  water-level  sense, 
Drags  his  timber  to  the  nigh 

Canal  or  main  stream, 
And  rafts,  water  hid  himself, 

By  bright  moon-beam, 
To  yon  isled  castle  in 

The  waters  of  his  pool; 
There  to  pile  his  storehouse 

With  bark  of  aspen  full. 
Now  come  the  first  faint  quaverings 

Of  Winter's  fleecy  snow; 
The  ice  forms,  and  wise  Castor 

Gloats  within  his  hut  below. 


250 


UNDER  THE  SNOWS 


UNDER  the  snows  Val  Elkanah  soft  lies— 
Under  the  arch  of  the  silent  skies. 

White  is  her  bosom— closed  are  her  eyes. 
She  sleeps  on  her  couch  as  a  northern  queen, 
Breathing  the  balse  of  the  spruces  green. 

Oh,  soften  thy  murmur,  ye  ice  fringed  stream. 
Ye  birds  of  the  forest,  intrude  not  her  dream. 
Oh,  winds  of  the  winter,  blow  softly  and  low, 
For  fair  Val  Elkanah  sleeps  under  the  snow. 

From  above  peer  the  mountains  blear  and  bleak, 
Thru  the  deep  passes  from  peak  to  peak: 
Sentinels  stern,  that  move  not  nor  speak; 

Guarding  the  loved  One  in  slumber  below, 
Kissed  by  the  lips  of  the  alpenglow. 

Ye  rude  bold  tempest,  be  still  on  the  height. 
Ye  far  world,  enter  not  in  her  sight. 
For  fair  Val  Elkanah,  clad  in  white — 

Under  the  high  stars  and  suns  of  the  night- 
Sleeps  beneath  the  dim  beams  of  their  light. 

How  can  ye  ask  me,  to  leave  one  so  fair — 

She  in  her  beauty  sleeping  there, 

Apart  from  the  world — its  pain  and  care! 
Ne'er  will  I  leave  her,  so  pure  and  sweet. 

Together,  we'll  the  bright  springtime  greet. 

Oh,  soften  thy  murmur,  ye  ice  fringed  stream. 
Ye  birds  of  the  forest,  intrude  not  her  dream. 
Oh,  winds  of  the  winter,  blow  softly  and  low, 
For  fair  Val  Elkanah  sleeps  under  the  snow. 


251 


The  white-tailed  ptarmigan,  like  the  botany  of  the  upper  heights 
of  the  Front  Range  of  the  Rockies,  suggests  the  far  north  of  arctic 
wilds.  It  is  the  southern-most  representative  of  a  bird  family  whose 
members  furnished  sport  for  Lord  Dufferin's  yacht  crew  on  the  Isle 
of  Spitzbergen,  and  whose  proud  cock  in  distant  Labrador  inspired 
Audubon  to  one  of  his  finest  bird  paintings.  Their  plumage  changes 
with  the  seasons  and  in  winter  is  pure  white.  Protected  by  law,  they 
inhabit  the  rock  slopes  above  timber-line  in  considerable  numbers, 
feeding  upon  the  buds  of  the  alpine  willows  and  birches.  In  winters 
of  unusual  snow-fall,  which  completely  cover  their  usual  feeding 
grounds,  they  are  forced  to  the  lower  valleys  to  feed  in  the  willow, 
birch,  and  alder  copses. 


WINTER  FLIGHT  OF  PTARMIGAN 

WILDEST— most  exquisite  sight, 
Seen  in  these  alpine  lands, 
Is  the  flight  of  ptarmigan 

O'er  Winter's  snow-grained  sands. 
Startled — they  rise  in  spectral  flight 

From  the  valley  floor; 
And  with  wild  cries  wing  ghostly 

The  icy  meadows  o'er. 
Wheeling,  curving  pinions  spotless, 

In  descending  night — 
Dim  seen  in  the  pall  of  blinding 

Snows,  they  speed  their  flight, 
Toward  the  gashed,  gorge-rent,  gale-swept 

Summits  of  pallored  peaks, 
Which  yet  the  winter  sun  enfeebled, 

Mantles  with  pale  rose  streaks. 

Oh,  wondrous,  snow  plumed  fowl 

Of  far,  drear  alpine  height; 
Thy  flight  suggests  the  winging 

Of  holy  angels  bright. 
Seeming  a  brood  so  unearthly, 

Alabaster  white; 
As  if  pure  seraphic  spirits, 

Speeding  infinite 
O'er  arctic  ice-gleaming  wastes 

'Tween  earth  and  heaven  laid, 
Had,  from  the  gold  paved,  spiraled 

Holy  Way,  swift  flight  made, 


252 


To  meet  One,  who,  divinely  favored, 

Had  brought  his  dead — 
Changed  from  cold  clay  into  living 

Dove-like  form  instead — 
And  from  the  utmost  seas,  in 

His  bosom  soft  carried 
The  exquisite  shape;  and  amid  this 

Desolation  dread, 
Had  met  like  winged  shapes  of 

Innocence  from  Edened  calms, 
And  loosed  his  dead,  to  fly 

With  them  to  heavenly  realms. 


253 


ASPEN  DAYS  ARE  DAYS  OF  GOLD 


A  PEN  days  are  days  of  gold, 
Whisp'ring  to  lovers — "Sweet  enfold; 
As  all  the  brown  crags, 
And  all  the  green  groves, 
And  all  the  far  hills 

Their  shining  bright  tresses  gild. 
And  the  heart  beats  blissful, 

As  tho  its  love 
Embraced  it  close, 
And  all  its  tender  longing  filled.     . 

Aspen  days  are  autumn  days 

Of  cobwebbed  skies, 
And  sun-warmed,  balsam 

Scented,  nooks  and  glades; 
The  heart,  in  Indian  summer 

Warmth,  revives; 
And  love  embraces  love, 

In  gold  leafed  shades. 

As  if  approving  Summer's 

Last  fond  love, 
The  birch  in  reddest  scarlet 

Crowns  the  heights  above; 
And  sighing,  love-panting, 

Soft,  odorous  breeze  of  South 
Imparts  to  everything  of  kiss 

Its  rosy  mouth. 

Aspen  days  are  days  of  gold, 
Whisp'ring  to  lovers — "Sweet  enfold;" 
As  all  the  brown  crags, 

And  all  the  green  groves, 
And  all  the  far  hills 

Their  shining  bright  tresses  gild. 
And  the  heart  beats  blissful, ' 

As  tho  its  love 
Embraced  it  close, 

And  all  its  tender  longing  filled. 


254 


VIRGIN  PEAKS 


'E! 


Yl   . 
Milk-white  breasts  of  Virgin  Peaks, 
Pink  teated — swelling — 
With  fragrant,  warm,  intoxicant 
Purple  hollows  'tween  dwelling! 


Ye! 

Vast  Alpine  Maids!     Molten  sired 

By  the  red  fires  of  love  clutched  elements; 

Lying,  ripened,  lily  bulbed — recumbent — 

In  chastity  sweet  florulent! 

Who? 

'Mong  the  starred  youth  of  the  orb  isled 

Streams  of  Night  dispersed, 

Shall  lead  ye,  mist  veiled, 

To  the  marriage  bed  of  Universe? 


255 


THE  MAID  0'  COW-BELL  HILL 


HPHERE  is  a  spot  near  Aliens  Park, 

A  rugged,  wind-swept  hill: 
I  ne'er  can  pass  its  grassy  slopes 

Without  a  poignant  thrill. 
A  pine  wood,  once  most  beautiful, 

Swept  from  its  base  to  top; 
But  fierce  and  wind-fanned  forest  fires 

Felled  charred  its  virgin  crop. 
Since  then  a  native  grass  has  claimed 

Its  wide  and  open  green; 
And  cattle  from  the  village  there 

Feed  daily  on  the  scene. 
And  because  of  distant  cow-bells 

In  evening  clear  and  still, 
Softly  tinkling  from  the  hillside, 

People  call  it  Cow-bell  Hill. 


And  the  stars  they  twinkle-twinkle, 
O'er  the  mountains,  glen,  and  stream. 
And  the  bells  they  tinkle-tinkle, 

As  the  cows  graze  on  the  green. 
And  as  the  notes  waft  to  me, 
In  the  evening  clear  and  still, 
I'm  dreaming  of  the  maiden 
That  I  met  on  Cow-bell  Hill. 


One  day  to  glance  the  landscape  o'er — 

Its  view  is  famous  far — 
From  lights  of  fair  Elkanah's  Vale 

To  Green  Mountain's  fire  scar — 
I  sat  me  down  upon  a  ledge 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
And  drank  Wild  Basin's  beauty  in 

And  Meeker's  vastness  high. 
A  west  wind,  soft  as  woman's  touch, 

Pressed  light  my  sweatened  brow, 
And  perfume  of  the  heather  sweet 

Swept  upward  to  me  now. 

256 


And — did  I  dream?     It  seemed  not  that; 

It  was  so  true  and  real: 
A  vision  of  a  maiden  fair 

Did  sudden  now  reveal. 

I  had  oft  wished  for  woman's  love, 

The  perfect  of  my  dream, 
But  years  of  'quiteless  longing  had 

Subdued  my  youthful  theme. 
So  courteous  only  I  arose 

And  gave  a  friendly  bow, 
And  asked  her  if  the  view  also 

Had  led  her  to  the  high  hill's  brow. 
She  answered  not  a  word  to  me, 

But  stood  with  downcast  eyes: 
A  being  most  transcendent  like, 

Not  heeding  my  surprise. 
Amazed,  my  thoughts  in  wonder  flashed, 

Be  she  mortal  maid  or  saint! 
And  as  I  stood  there  wondering, 

She  ceased  thus  her  restraint. 

"In  that  fair  land  of  spirit  ken 

And  known  as  Paradise, 
I  too,  have  dreamed  of  love,  as  you, 

And  thus  traversed  the  skies. 
You've  heard,  I  deem,  the  truth  of  life, 

That  heav'nly  love  is  this: 
Bright  angels  are  not  one — but  two, 

Joined  thus  in  perfect  bliss. 
No  one  in  all  this  world  for  me, 

But  you,  whom  I  adore. 
So  give  not  up  your  thoughts  of  love, 

But  seek  me  more  and  more. 
I'm  waiting  'mong  that  winged  throng 

For  you,  and  you  alone. 
So  falter  not  nor  cease  your  thoughts 

Of  me  in  that  sweet  home." 

257 


I  reeled!     My  thoughts  came  thick  and  fast; 

My  heart  beat  as  a  boy. 
I  strived  to  know  this  wondrous  thing 

That  made  me  mad  with  joy. 
I  could  not  speak  nor  voice  a  word; 

My  senses  left  me  quite. 
I  feared  to  make  a  sound  or  note 

Lest  she  should  rise  in  flight. 
At  last  I  felt  the  speech  of  thought, 

And  gazed  into  her  eyes, 
The  clutch  of  that  lost  love  of  mine 

The  years  had  held  in  ties. 
With  outstretched  arms  I  staggered  forth, 

Thus  heaven  'lowed  me  clasp — 
And  for  one  moment's  perfect  joy 

I  held  her  in  my  grasp. 

Oh,  wondrous  are  the  mysteries 

Of  solitary  lives. 
We  see  them  come  and  go  withal, 

But  do  not  know  their  skies. 
A  silent  love  burns  brightly,  and 

We  may  not  see  its  flame; 
But  oft  within  the  hidden  heart 

It's  burning  just  the  same. 
Tho  mortal  faith  is  weak  and  frail — 

A  vision's  light  as  air — 
Yet  the  call  of  that  fair  maiden 

I  ne'er  but  will  declare. 
She  loves  me,  and  she's  waiting  there — 

Beyond  the  starry  skies. 
And  when  my  spirit  flies  from  hence 

We'll  meet  in  Paradise. 

And  the  stars  they  twinkle-twinkle, 
O'er  the  mountains,  glen,  and  stream. 
And  the  bells  they  tingle-tingle, 

As  the  cows  graze  on  the  green. 
And  as  the  notes  waft  to  me, 
In  the  evening  clear  and  still, 
I'm  dreaming  of  the  maiden 
That  I  met  on  Cow-bell  Hill. 


258 


PURPLES 


EMERGING  from  the  forest  dark, 
With  night-log  of  resinous  pine, 
I  beheld  a  marvel — 
Beautiful — divine. 

Twas  deep  evening,  and  by  the 

Alpenglow  I  had  cut  the  pine, 
As  the  West  glowed  golden 

In  the  Sun's  decline. 

The  winter  snows  lay  deep,  and  all 

The  Vale  in  marble  chastity 
Was  draped  by  Nature's 

Frost-cry st' ling  alchemy. 

I  looked — and  on  the  crusted  snow 
Cast  my  log  with  sharp  wonder  cry, 

Gazing  worshipful 
Upon  the  eastern  sky. 

The  great  east  Mountain  of  our  God-loved  Vale 

Smoked  in  shim'ring  purples, 
The  nuptial  bed  drape 

Of  empassioned  couples. 

Not  more  glorious  was  pearl-eyed 
Venus,  panting  in  the  throes  of  love, 

Than  this  tow'ring  Mountain, 
Quivering  above. 

I  saw  the  Groom — transcendent  Star, 
Pressing  on  the  Mountain's  heaving  breast 

His  orbed  kiss,  flaming 
In  glances  rubiest. 

Like  search-light  beams,  the  Groom,  mid  the 
Canopied  purples,  flashed  fire  eyes; 

Then  rose  at  last — in  flame — 
From  the  Mountain's  sighs. 

259 


They  embraced  there — the  Mountain  and 
The  Star,  in  Hymen's  sweetest  swoon; 

Then  deep  hid  from  view, 
By  veil  of  'preaching  Moon. 

I  waited  till  the  Queen  of  Night 
Had  cleared  the  east  rim  of  the  Vale, 

And  by  her  light,  shouldered  log, 
And  sought  the  trail. 


THERE  IS  NO  BORDER  TO  THE  WEST 

THERE  is  no  border  to  the  West. 
That's  why  I  love  it  best. 
It  travels  with  the  setting  sun, 
On  Freedom's  high  wave  crest. 

It  has  no  pampered  royalty 
To  check  the  flow  of  liberty; 
But  warmest  hospitality, 
To  purge  the  soul  of  tyranny. 

All  kings  will  fade.    Republics  rule 
The  coming  years  of  Hist'ry's  school. 
Like  the  air  of  our  golden  West, 
All  men  in  liberty  breathe  best. 

There  is  no  border  to  the  West. 
That's  why  I  love  it  best. 
It  travels  with  the  setting  sun, 
On  Freedom's  high  wave  crest. 


260 


The  Vale  of  Elkanah  is  famous  for  its  many  wonderful  cloud  and 
atmospheric  effects,  but  none  are  more  remarkable  than  the  beautiful 
alpenglows  of  autumn  and  early  winter.  For  many  moments,  in 
some  instances,  after  the  sun  has  gone  down,  orange  and  rose  radi 
ances  so  glow  from  the  western  sky,  as  to  tinge  and  communicate 
their  colors  to  the  first  snows  of  winter. 


THE  ALPENGLOW 


r"TiHE  alpenglow  is  the  parting  glance 

I        Of  a  perfect,  cloudless  day. 
Cast  as  a  dying  maiden's  gaze 

Falls  on  her  lover  unearthly  bright, 
As  her  soul  takes  wing  on  the  heavenly  way, 
And  leaves  him  alone  in  the  deepening  night, 

To  murmur  her  name  and  pray — and  pray. 

Suffusing  the  burnished  peaks  of  glacier 

And  boss  of  gleaming  snow — 
Submerging  the  topmost  crags  and  heights, 

It  holds  the  mountains  in  its  fold; 
Sifting  and  rippling  its  pink  blushing  tender  glow, 
Thru  the  deep  wind-hollowed  passes  drear  and  old, 

And  down  to  the  Vale  below — below. 

And  it  lights  my  soul  as  it  shines  from  the  skies. 

And  mantling  the  peaks, 
Pours  into  the  Vale  its  deathless  glance, 

Filling  my  sight  with  vistas  fair; 
Pressing  its  rose  blush  to  my  uplifted  cheeks, 
And  lifting  mine  eyes  to  those  sweet  visions  rare, 

That  my  thought  ever  seeks — ever  seeks. 


261 


THE  QUAKER'S  BONNY  BONNETS 

In  the  vernacular  of  the  Rockies,  the  quaking  asps  or  aspens,  are 
known  as  Quakers. 

r~T'HE  drear  sight  I  saw  this  morning,  dear, 

j        'Deed,  it  sorter  made  me  sad. 
Altho  I  s'pose  the  winter  time 

Has  right  much  to  make  us  glad. 
Yet  the  frost  is  keen  and  biting 

To  the  greens  of  summer,  dear; 
And  to  me  there's  something  mournful 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year. 
Now  these  Quakers,  you  remember, 

In  the  springtime's  rosy  cheer; 
How  they  leaved  so  green,  divinely, 

On  the  sunny  hill  right  here. 
How  in  glee  they  shook  in  summer 

And  soft  rustled  in  the  breeze. 
And  now  it  nearly  breaks  my  heart 

That  I  must  part  with  these. 

Oh,  the  Quaker's  bonny  bonnets 
Are  a-turning  on  the  hill. 
Their  leaves  are  silent  falling 

In  the  ripples  of  the  rill. 
The  frost  has  nipped  their  dainty  heads. 
They're  silent  now  and  still. 
Oh,  can't  ye  cuddle  closer,  love, 
To  drive  away  the  chill! 

But  there's  hope,  I  guess,  in  falling  leaves, 

As  in  other  things  that  die, 
Just  as  there  is  resurrection 

In  the  things  we  crucify. 
So  we'll  watch  the  dead  leaves  falling 

As  the  winter  wind  blows  cold. 
We  will  see  their  yellow  tresses 

Sink  to  Mother  Earth  and  mould. 
We  will  see  the  trees  stript  naked 

Of  their  bright  green  summer  dress. 
And  watch  the  drifting  snow  enfold 

Their  poor  shivering  distress. 

262 


But  bright  we'll  keep  the  winter  fires 
Till  the  springtime  comes  again; 

And  then  we'll  see  the  Quakers,  love, 
Leaf  in  the  warm  spring  rain. 

Oh,  the  Quaker's  bonny  bonnets 
Are  a-turning  on  the  hill. 
Their  leaves  are  silent  falling 

In  the  ripples  of  the  rill. 
The  frost  has  nipped  their  dainty  heads. 
They're  silent  now  and  still. 
Oh,  can't  ye  cuddle  closer,  love, 
To  drive  away  the  chill! 


SOME  HOLY  DAY 


THE  slender  crescent  of  the  maiden  Moon 
Gleams  soft  o'er  our  sacred  Peak; 
And  lustrous  Venus  Aphrodite,  bright 
Conjunctive  glows,  at  her  shining  feet. 
Close  west-horizoned,  shines  a  rosy  alpenglow, 

Which  with  cupid  clouds  is  wreathed; 
And  I — adoring,  stand  expectant,  suppliant — 
Bright  angels  fair  to  meet. 

I  feel,  I  know,  I  shall — some  Holy  Day, 

As  these  peerless  planets  repeat, 
With  God-like  grace,  this  glorious  scene, 

Fade — and  with  them  sink,  in  azure  sweet. 


263 


All  that  peerless  wilderness  of  snowy  alp  and  shaggy  wood  on 
the  headwaters  of  the  North  St.  Vrain  west  of  Copeland  Lake,  on  the 
State  road  between  Aliens  and  Estes  Parks,  has  long  been  known  as 
Wild  Basin.  It  is  a  magnificently  watered  and  wooded  country, 
slightly  touched,  many  years  ago,  by  fire  on  the  north  rim.  The 
Continental  Divide  forms  a  solid  rampart  on  the  west;  the  Longs 
Peak  spur  range  rims  the  north,  and  the  Mt.  Caroline  ridge,  extend 
ing  southeasterly  from  Mt.  Cooper  on  the  Front  Range,  rims  it 
on  the  south.  Altho  visited  and  explored  more  or  less  by  numerous 
parties  in  recent  years,  and  often  prospected  by  miners,  it  was  never 
accurately  mapped  nor  its  minor  peaks  named,  until  Messrs.  Cooper 
and  Babcock  accomplished  the  task  in  1908-09;  and  its  upper  heights 
still  offer  unexplored  fastnesses  to  the  daring. 

WILD  BASIN 

WILD  BASIN! 
Torrent  roaring  gorge  of  June! 

The  gathered  snows  of  winter 
Melt — froth  descending — 
In  seaward  swoon. 
High  the  river,  swelling, 
With  the  loosed  mad  snows  impelling, 
Rears  its  crest,  flood  fills 
Its  banks,  and  sets  the  land  atune. 

Wild  Basin! 
Snow  frescoed  corridor! 
The  orb  studded  dome  of  Night 
Its  snow  bastioned  heights 
High  arching  o'er: 

Reflecting  her  red  lamps 

In  its  emerald  rippling  tarns; 

And  sifting  soft  moon-beams 

O'er  its  green,  moss-cushioned  floor. 

Wild  Basin! 

Deep) — squirrel  haunted  wood! 

Spruce  columned— and  balsamed  sweet; 
Green  aspen  edged,  pined, 
And  brown  willowed. 
Dogwood  twined— fruited  red, 
With  rasp  and  strawberry's  ripe  heads; 
Clematised — junipered ; 
And,  nigh  snow,  dwarfed  pines  soft  brood. 

264 


Wild  Basin! 

Bird  flitting  realm  of  song! 
Joy  chorused,  myriad  winged; 
Full  throated,  piping, 
Melodious  throng. 

Ousel — songed  water-fowl; 
Humming-birds,  with  swift  whirring  wings; 
Solitaires,  and  other 
Songsters,  sing  the  woods  among. 

Wild  Basin! 

Sweet  scented  land  of  green! 
Alpine  gardened,  next  the  snow, 
With  marsh  marigold. 
And  next  the  stream, 
With  primroses  red,  blue 
Mertensia,  and  adder's  tongue; 
And  banked  with  laurel  pink, 
And  rare  orchids,  oft  unseen. 

Wild  Basin! 

Land  of  trout  teeming  pools! 
A  full  thousand  white  cascades, 
Coursing  forest  glades 
In  leafy  cools; 

Shining  with  speckled  beauties, 
Which — finning  foamed,  bud-kissed  riffles- 
Tempting  lurk  'neath  deep  banks, 
Slow  snuffling  sun-gleamed  globules. 

Wild  Basin! 

Cragged  abyss  of  azure! 

Cloud  fleeced,  with  rainbows  arching 
Sunlit  waterfalls 
And  fountains  pure. 
Distant  storms,  echoing 
Their  thunders,  and  lightnings  flashing. 
Hail,  rain — tempests  lashing; 
Then  sun-glints  from  skies  unobscured. 

Wild  Basin! 
Protean  Enchantress! 

Dissolved  to  tears — flushed — angered; 

Then  gay  smiling  bright 

In  tenderness. 


265 


Piqued — withdrawing  her  smiles, 
Yet  ever  beautiful; 
Then  revealing,  ne'er  shamed, 
All  her  charms  in  wantonness. 

Wild  Basin! 

Bowed  in  autumnal  hush! 

Streams  low  murmuring  and  shrunk 
To  gold  sanded  rills; 
And  founts  cease  gush. 

Winds  low  wailing.     Deep  woods 
Whisp'ring — sore  dreading  coming  snows. 
Crimsoned  sunsets  flicker, 
And  ling'ring  birds  swift  southward  rush. 

Wild  Basin! 

Gleamed  in  desolate  snows! 

From  ice  stilled  streams  to  peak  tips; 
And  forest,  snow-drooped 
In  silent  rows. 

Moons,  ghostly  and  mist-veiled, 
Peer  monthly  at  the  deep'ning  drifts. 
Suns,  feeble,  rise  and  set; 
And  the  wild  wind  ever  blows. 


The  Mist  Dragon  is  a  vast  fleece-like  mist  that  is  often  observed  in 
the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  issuing  in  stealthy,  undulating,  serpentine  move 
ment,  from  the  lower  gorges  of  the  North  St.  Vrain  and  creeping 
along  the  base  of  the  Twin  Sisters  and  up  into  Lamb's  Notch,  the 
hydrographic  divide  between  the  waters  of  the  Big  Thompson  and 
the  St.  Vrain;  where  it  is  usually  dispersed  and  dissipated  by  con 
flicting  air  currents  from  Estes  Park.  This  cloud  formation  is 
gleaming  white  and  is  often  miles  in  length;  and  by  reason  of  its 
insidious,  reptile  motion  and  uniform  python-like  body,  suggests 
a  dragon.  Occasionally  it  retreats  and  withdraws  itself  to  the  gorges 
whence  it  came,  with  the  same  motion  of  its  advance. 

THE  MIST  DRAGON 

OUT  from  the  deep  gorge 
The  mist-stoled  reptile  sweeps, 
Gripping  each  confronting  peak, 
It  stealthy  thief s, 
As  a  worm  extends  itself 

And  slowly  creeps, 
Bridging,  arch-like, 
The  op'ed  space  from  leaf  to  leaf. 

Valeward,  from  the  river's  course, 

It  twists  its  huge  constricting  shape; 
And  floats — a  dirigible  vast — 

Its  snow-white  sinuous  tape 
The  mid  heights  of  the  Sisters  past, 

And  on  to  the  pine  clad  Notch; 
Where  unseen  warders  of  the  air — 

Who  its  silent  course  have  watched — 
Attack,  with  desp'rate  fury, 

The  intruding  aerialite. 
Now  deadly  and  mid-air  conflict 

Rages  on  that  sky-ward  height; 
Until,  dismayed,  the  beast 

Retires  to  its  cave  in  shattered  plight; 
Or  dissolves  invisible, 

And  unseen  of  man,  maintains  the  fight. 

Thus,  the  aerial, 

Vap'rous  world  of  cloud — 
As  doth  the  sphered, 

Sunward  rolling  globe  of  man — 
Teems  with  commingling  life, 

Monster-like  and  mad, 
In  perfect  'lotment 

With  God's  unfathomed  plan. 
267 


Thunder  Lake,  where  the  following  poem  was  written,  lies  at  the 
upper  end  of  Wild  Basin  under  the  magnificent  thousand  foot  preci 
pices  of  Mt.  Kirkwood.  From  the  east  shore  of  the  lake,  two  beauti 
ful  waterfalls  can  be  seen,  pitching  in  whitest  foam  over  gorge  rims 
500  feet  above  the  lake  level.  Directly  to  the  west,  above  a  wilder 
ness  of  flashing  snowfields,  is  the  low  col  of  the  Continental  Divide 
between  Mts.  Alice  and  Kirkwood — the  Boulder-Grand  Pass.  The 
lake  was  named  by  Harry  Cole,  an  early  settler,  on  account  of  the 
deep  reverberations  of  thunder  which  roll  grandly  from  Kirkwood' s 
mighty  slopes,  and  boom  tempestuously  across  the  lake. 


SPRUCES  AND  STARS 

r  I  ^HE  white-crowned  sparrow's 

|        Song  is  hushed — 

The  pipit's  voice  is  still. 
The  sound  of  stream  that  day-bright  rushed 

Has  sunk  to  tinkling  rill. 
The  last  bright  ray  of 

Setting  sun 

Cross  the  tarn  its  fire  has  flung, 
Merging  with  leaping  flame  crimson, 

Of  campfire,  pot  o'erhung. 
The  meal  is  done, 

And  Night's  deep  gloom 

Enfolds  the  mountain  land. 
The  charred  red  coals  of  campfire  bloom 

Are  dying  on  the  sand. 
Then  stars  descend 

'Mong  dark  spruce  boughs, 
And  dance  to  sleepy  eyes; 
Till  their  spell  induces  deep  sleep  drowse, 

And  alp  wind  breathes  in  sighs. 

Spruces  and  stars 

Are  the  campfire  cars, 

Wheeling  souls  to  pleasant  dreams: 

As  on  my  back, 

In  the  blanket  pack, 

I  gaze  on  the  bright  orb  gleams; 

Shining,  mellow  soft, 

From  skies  aloft, 

Thru  the  spruce  boughs'  latticed  seams. 


268 


The  midnight  chill 

Of  the  alpine  night 

Awakens  me  with  start. 
I  shiver — brushing  hoar  frost  white, 

From  where  the  blankets  part. 
Then  gath'ring  full 

The  whole  bed  pack, 

I  snuggle  deep  inside; 
And  peer  soft  thru  the  spruce  roof  crack, 

At  the  planets  circling  wide. 
Endless  train 

Of  chariots  bright, 

Tracking  the  Milky  Way— 
I  cannot  sleep  till  starry  Night 

Dim  passengers  the  Day. 
The  balsamed  boughs 

That  arbor  roof, 

The  cov'rings  of  my  pack, 
Bend  soft  in  mothering  sweet  droop, 

As  swift  the  planets  track. 

Spruces  and  stars 

Are  the  campfire  cars, 

Wheeling  souls  to  pleasant  dreams; 

As  on  my  back, 

In  the  blanket  pack, 

I  gaze  on  the  bright  orb  gleams; 

Shining,  mellow  soft, 

From  skies  aloft, 

Thru  the  spruce  boughs'  latticed  seams. 

The  dark  trees 

With  their  cuddlings  mute, 
Again  deep  sleep  instill; 
In  spite  of  thought  in  dream  dispute, 

I'd  sleep  not  till  Morn's  thrill. 
Oh!    What  soft  light 

Is  that  I  see, 

That  dims  these  starry  eyes? 
It  is — It  is  the  mystery 

Of  Morning's  glad  sunrise. 


269 


I  lie  now 

Till  the  lovely  eyes 

Of  soft  and  tender  Night 
Grow  dim  and  pale  in  ghostly  guise, 

And  spruces  stand  in  light. 
Oh,  Night, 

Sweet  dusky  mother  deep — 

Farewell,  till  Day  once  more 
Sinks  in  Thine  arms  in  tired  sleep, 

And  I  with  Thee  drowsed  o'er. 

Spruces  and  stars 

Are  the  campfire  cars, 

Wheeling  souls  to  pleasant  dreams; 

As  on  my  back, 

In  the  blanket  pack, 

I  gaze  on  the  bright  orb  gleams; 

Shining,  mellow  soft, 

From  skies  aloft, 

Thru  the  spruce  boughs'  latticed  seams. 


270 


SONG  OF  THE  GLOW-WORM 

The  glow-worm  is  found  on  the  summit  of  Old  Man  and  Lily 
Mountains  and  other  points  in  the  middle  oberland,  in  June  and 
early  summer.  It  is  about  an  inch  long,  appearing  somewhat  like  a 
caterpillar,  and  emitting  a  shining  green  light;  which  glows  steadily, 
not  at  intervals,  as  the  fire-fly's  does.  It  is  only  the  female  which  is 
thus  phosphorescent,  the  male  resembling  an  ordinary  flying  beetle; 
which,  flying  about  in  the  night,  is  attracted  to  the  female  by  her 
light. 

WHERE  art  thou,  my  pretty  mate, 
Ling'ring  in  the  warm  glade  late? 
My  form  is  fair  illuminate, 
And  I,  my  love,  impatient  wait. 

On  the  rock — 'neath  the  moon — 
I  soft  incandescent  bloom. 
Gleaming  bright  to  captivate 
My  own — my  pretty  downy  mate. 

Soft  he  comes,  my  pretty  down, 

Ambling  o'er  the  lichens  brown; 
Attracted  by  my  shining  form, 

Which  he'll  embrace  till  dewy  morn. 

On  the  rock — 'neath  the  moon — 
I  soft  incandescent  bloom. 
Gleaming  bright  to  captivate 
My  own — my  pretty  downy  mate. 


271 


Mt.  Ypsilon,  a  prominent  peak  of  the  Mummy  Range  northwest 
of  Horseshoe  Park,  received  its  name  from  Mrs.  Frederick  H.  Chapin, 
who  in  company  with  her  husband,  visited  Estes  Park  in  1887;  and 
the  following,  quoted  from  Mr.  Chapin's  book,  "Mountaineering  in 
Colorado,"  will  explain: 

"One  great  peak  with  a  steep  wall  facing  east,  and  a  long  reclining 
ridge  leading  toward  the  southwest,  especially  interested  us.  A  large 
snow-field  lay  on  the  eastern  face;  two  glittering  bands  of  ice  ex 
tended  skyward  to  the  ridge  of  the  mountain,  forming  a  perfect  Y. 
My  wife  said  to  me,  'Its  name  shall  be  Ypsilon  (the  Greek  name 
for  the  letter  Y)  Peak.'  So  it  went  forth,  and  the  name  was  accepted 
by  the  dwellers  in  the  valley,  and  by  the  visitors  at  the  ranches." 

In  the  summer  of  1905,  Mr.  Louis  Raymond  Levings,  younger 
son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Levings  of  Chicago,  in  attempting  to 
cross  the  east  face  of  the  mountain,  suddenly  fell  to  depths  below  and 
was  instantly  killed.  His  body  was  entombed  in  concrete  near  the 
point  where  it  lodged. 

LOUIS 

ON  the  slopes  of  Ypsilon, 
Where  the  flying  eagle  soars — 
Where  the  snows  of  winter  linger, 
And  the  gleaming  granite  lures — 
There  a  Sleeper  lies  a-dreaming 

In  the  hollow  of  the  steep, 
Where  the  winds  of  tempests  bellow, 
And  the  storm  mists  wreathe  and  creep. 

Across  the  glist'ning  snow-fields 

There  comes  the  rosy  flush  of  Morn; 
The  heights  in  golden  sunshine  glitter — 

The  beaming  Day  is  born. 
Then  Evening  with  its  shadows — 

Let  thru  the  Twilight's  bars — 
And  dusky  Night  in  glory 

Spreads  her  beauteous  robe  of  stars. 

Yet  the  Sleeper  lies  a-dreaming, 
And  the  suns  they  cycle  on. 
The  seasons  their  set  courses  run, 
And  the  years  pass  swift  anon. 
We  loved  Him! 
Ah!    Need  say  we  more! 
Our  loved  One — slumber  on; 
As  the  Ages  chant  their  measures 
On  the  slopes  of  Ypsilon. 

272 


The  Spring  with  alpine  daisies  fair 

Decks  bright  the  Sleeper's  cot; 
The  summer  with  its  primroses, 

And  sweet  for-get-me-not; 
The  Autumn  with  its  lusty  winds, 

And  gorgeous  alpenglows; 
The  Winter  with  its  winding  sheet 

Of  chaste  and  purest  snows. 

The  silent  Mountain  glistens 

In  the  heat  of  summer  noon. 
Its  snowy  wings  gleam  brightly 

'Neath  the  winter's  midnight  moon. 
Its  crest  is  stud  with  star  gems — 

Its  pure  fountains  sparkle  clear; 
And  all  its  alpine  beauty 

Is  revealed  each  passing  year. 

Yet  the  Sleeper  lies  a-dreaming, 

And  the  suns  they  cycle  on. 

The  seasons  their  set  courses  run, 

And  the  years  pass  swift  anon. 

We  loved  Him! 

Ah!    Need  say  we  more! 

Our  loved  One — slumber  on; 

As  the  Ages  chant  their  measures 

On  the  slopes  of  Ypsilon. 


273 


BACK  TO  THE  HEARTH  OF  MY  HUT 


o 


NCE  more  I've  met  the  monster  face  to  face — 

Spoil-mad  World  and  the  battling  Race. 
Stript  of  my  goods,  sore  wounded,  scarce  alive, 
I  gain  my  hut — a  fugitive. 


Fled  from  the  world  and  its  misery — 

Safe  from  the  arms  of  the  enemy — 

Back  to  the  hearth  of  my  hut,  Oh  God,  with  Thee! 

Quick,  then,  put  the  big  back  log  in  its  space, 
And  pitch-needled  boughs  of  pine  put  in  place. 

A  handful  of  shavings — blaze  of  the  match — 
Ah,  now  the  bright  fires  of  my  hearth  do  catch. 

The  pot  soon  is  singing  its  roundelay. 

My  dog  is  curled  up  on  his  wisp  of  hay. 
The  Muses  have  come  for  the  evening's  tale, 

And  now  surges  strong  the  fierce  winter  gale. 

Red,  now,  the  flames  of  my  hearth  render  cheer. 

My  friends  gather  round  me,  lovely  and  dear. 
Both  angels  and  men  here  need  have  no  fear. 

We're  safe  in  our  hut  from  the  outside  drear. 


Fled  from  the  world  and  its  misery — 

Safe  from  the  arms  of  the  enemy — 

Back  to  the  hearth  of  my  hut,  Oh  God,  with  Thee! 


274 


Helen  Hyde,  that  inimitable  sketcher  of  Japanese  child  and  folk 
life,  being  impressed  with  the  picturesqueness  in  Japan  of  the 
flitting  of  the  innumerable  lighted  paper  lanterns  on  the  hill  and 
mountain  sides  which  the  natives  carry  as  they  visit  each  other  or 
gather  at  social  functions  at  night,  introduced  the  same  charming 
custom  in  Elkanah  Valley,  by  presenting  to  each  of  her  friends  a 
handsome  Japanese  lantern  inscribed  with  the  monogram  of  the  local 
club,  and  which  are  used  as  above — the  lighted  lantern  being  symbol 
ized  as  signifying  the  warmest  fellowship  and  hospitality. 


LIGHTS  OF  THE  VALE 

C'^HTSoftheVale 
Are  flitting  the  trails, 
To  lighten  each  one  to  the  hall; 
Where  maidens  most  fair 

And  gallants  of  air 
Will  linger  long  in  the  spell  of  the  ball. 

Oh!    Beautiful  lights! 
Oh!     Lanterns  so  bright! 

Glowing  far  in  the  evergreen  dale: 
What  brightness  is  thine 
Of  sweet  friendship  divine — 
Soft,  shining  lights  of  the  Vale! 

Lights  of  the  Vale 

Are  flitting  the  trails, 

To  lighten  each  one  to  his  home; 
And  each  lantern  bright 

Gleams  soft  in  the  night, 
As  beaming  stars  in  the  heaven  orbed  dome. 

Oh!     Beautiful  lights! 
Oh!    Lanterns  so  bright! 

Glowing  far  in  the  evergreen  dale: 
What  tales  could  ye  tell 

As  love  treads  yonder  dell- 
Soft,  shining  lights  of  the  Vale! 


275 


THE  SAW-WHET  OWL 

The  saw-whet  owl  is  so  named  from  its  rasp-like  note,  resembling 
the  filing  of  a  saw.  It  is  the  pigmy  of  the  owl  family  in  this  region; 
is  only  about  eight  inches  long,  of  reddish-brown,  white,  and  gray 
plumage,  and  is  here  all  the  year  round. 

HPHERE  is  a  little  saw-whet  owl 
]        Who  visits  me  at  night; 

But  he's  so  small  and  active  like 
It's  rare  that  he's  in  sight. 

He  starts  to  file  his  little  saw 
'Bout  the  time  I'm  snug  in  bed. 

He  keeps  it  up  so  long  at  times 
I  oft  think  he'll  split  rny  head. 

Now  they  say  an  owl's  ill-omened, 

But  of  him  I  have  no  fear: 
I  hope  he'll  whet  his  little  saw 

For  many  a  happy  year. 


The  Continental  Divide  is,  in  effect,  a  huge  wall;  and  on  the  east 
slope,  that  which  descends  towards  the  Great  Plains  and  forms 
their  uppermost  watershed,  it  is  indented  with  innumerable  gorges, 
gulches,  basins,  and  other  cavities,  forming  natural  reservoirs, 
cisterns,  and  deep  receptacles,  for  the  depositing  and  conserving  of 
snow,  and  so  contrived  as  to  be  hidden  for  a  large  portion  of  the  year 
from  the  rays  of  the  sun.  When  the  falls  of  snow  come,  they  usually 
appear  from  the  southeast,  borne  by  a  steady  drift  and  at  a  tempera 
ture  of  about  22  degrees  above  zero,  and  extending  over  the  whols 
Front  Range  and  usually  attaining  a  depth  of  from  two  to  sixteen 
inches;  and  it  can  readily  be  understood,  that  if  they  lay  as  they  fell, 
they  would  quickly  evaporate  upon  the  appearance  of  the  sun.  To 
avoid  this,  and  maintain  an  inexhaustible  and  steady  streamflow, 
Nature  provides  in  this  region  a  winter  prevailing  wind,  the  north 
west,  which,  after  almost  every  fall  of  snow,  strips  hundreds  of  miles 
of  the  high  country  along  the  Continental  Divide  of  its  frozen  flaked 
wealth;  and  blows,  sifts,  and  deposits  it  in  enormous  drifts  and  fields 
in  the  above  described  repositories;  later,  as  the  sun  swings  northward 
and  at  a  time  when  moisture  is  often  sorely  needed  on  the  Great  Plains 
for  irrigating  crops,  to  be  melted  and  flow  to  them  in  the  form  of 
purest  aqua.  The  forest,  of  course,  is  a  great  secondary  factor  in 
snow  conservation  in  this  region,  but  most  of  the  great  neves  and 
glaciers  of  the  Front  Range  lie  high  above  timber-line. 

Another  marvel  to  be  noted  in  connection  with  the  above  con 
serving  process  is  that  in  the  lower  valleys  and  ranges,  the  forest 
here  becoming  the  main  receptacle  factor  in  snow  conservation,  the 

276 


same  wind  sweeps  the  snow  from  the  unwooded  pastures,  slopes, 
and  fields,  into  the  forests;  thus  not  only  affording  open  grazing  for  the 
stock,  but  at  the  same  time  conserving  a  large  quantity  of  snow  in 
these  lower  altitudes,  which  melts  and  descends  to  the  Great  Plains 
early  in  the  spring,  in  time  to  irrigate  the  newly  planted  crops  in  the 
event  of  the  failure  of  rain  at  the  critical  period  of  germination. 
Thus  the  Northwest  Wind — cursed  roundly  at  times  by  both  plains 
man  and  mountaineer  for  its  persistent  bitter  blast — is  probably  our 
greatest  conservationist;  and  whenever  the  Great  Hills  are  white 
with  flying  snow,  it  is  certain  it  is  busy  storing  and  conserving  a 
wealth  of  moisture. 

The  snows  of  the  upper  obcrland  do  not  melt  to  any  appreciable 
degree  until  June,  the  flood  month.  The  normal  snowfall  of  the 
Front  Range  valleys  is  from  eight  to  ten  feet.  Glaciers  are  formed 
by  masses  of  snow  concentrating  in  one  place,  generally  a  steep 
gorge  where  the  wind  has  conveyed  the  snow,  and  there  passing  thru 
a  granular  process,  which  gradually  converts  them  into  ice.  A  neve 
orfirn,  is  a  field  of  snow  undergoing  the  granular  process. 

THE  WHITE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  OBERLAND 

AFOOT  of  snow  has  fallen 
On  the  Continental  Range; 
A  smother  of  graysome  storm  clouds 
Spilled  light  the  frozen  rain. 
On  hill,  in  vale,  and  valley  deep, 

The  fluffy  fleeces  lie, 
Waiting  for  the  faithful  Shepherd 
To  drive  them  cross  the  sky. 

Afar  on  the  western  ranges 

Sounds  his  boreal  horn. 
Clear  o'er  the  glistening  alps 

The  echoing  notes  are  borne. 
And  the  great  pines  hearing, 

Rustle  their  green  boughs  and  whisper, 
"He's  coming.     He's  coming! 

Ye  sleeping  flocks,  bestir!    Bestir!" 

Clad  in  his  airy  raiment — 

Wielding  his  soughing  staff, 

The  White  Shepherd  of  the  mountains 

Seeks  swift  the  fleecy  band. 

And  o'er  the  wintry  ledges — 

Across  the  dizzy  crags, 

He  drives  them  safe  to  the  sheepfolds, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Oberland. 

277 


Roused  from  their  slumber,  joy  wakened, 

Quick  springing,  and  bleating, 
The  flocks  of  the  peak  world 

Their  loved  Shepherd  give  greeting. 
"Up — up!    And  be  off,"  says  he; 

"To  the  sheepfolds  be  fleeting, 
Ere  the  dread  wolf  of  the  Sun 

Thy  snowy  fluffs  be  seeking." 

Thus  thru  the  long  night, 

With  swift  scamper  and  scurrying  rush, 
O'er  the  cabin  roof  and  eaves 

They  rustle,  jostle,  and  brush; 
With  ever  the  weird  song 

Of  their  Shepherd,  and  softest  sough 
Of  his  wonderful  staff 

Directing  stragglers  straight  and  true. 

Now  safe  in  the  gorges,  the  gulches, 

And  sheltered  north  slopes, 
The  flocks  have  been  driven 

Ere  the  Sun  his  golden  eye  opes. 
And  if  thru  the  day,  the  Shepherd 

Yet  drives  fleeces  that  stray, 
He  still  with  his  song  and  staff 

Keeps  the  dread  wolf  away. 

Now  list  ye,  honest  worker 

Of  farm,  of  orchard,  and  crop: 
When  loud  sounds  the  wind-horn  of  Shepherd 

From  high  mountain  top, 
Do  not  curse  that  wild  note, 

But  cheerily  bend  to  its  blast, 
And  bless  all  the  bright  waters 

The  pure  snow  fleeces  send  past. 

Clad  in  his  airy  raiment — 

Wielding  his  soughing  staff, 

The  White  Shepherd  of  the  mountains 

Seeks  swift  the  fleecy  band. 

And  o'er  the  wintry  ledges — 

Across  the  dizzy  crags, 

He  drives  them  safe  to  the  sheep  folds, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Oberland. 


278 


The  hermit-thrush  is  one  of  the  true  thrushes  of  North  America. 
It  is  one  of  the  late  spring  arrivals  in  the  Rockies,  nests  on  the  ground, 
and  lays  four  or  five  pale-bluish  eggs.  Nearly  every  swamp  or  marsh 
in  the  upper  valleys  of  the  oberland  is  inhabited  by  a  pair  of  these 
beautiful  songsters  in  the  nesting  and  brooding  season,  who  almost 
invariably  perch  on  a  favorite  dead  snag  or  stump  when  in  the  throes 
of  ecstatic  melody.  Settlers  and  other  home  makers  in  our  alpine 
valleys,  are  quite  prone  to  cut  and  remove  such  unsightly  objects 
as  an  old  dead  snag  or  tree  standing  full  or  part  length  among  its 
green  boughed  fellows  or  in  a  meadow.  These,  however,  are  the 
real  bird  trees,  balconies,  and  perches  of  the  wild  songsters;  and  to 
those  who  have  learned  and  know,  are  as  precious  for  this  reason,  as 
the  finest  spruce  in  the  glade. 


THE  HERMIT-THRUSH 

HHHERE  dwells  a  little  hermit  dear 

|        In  the  deep  and  tangled  wood. 
You  ne'er  can  see  him  come  or  go, 

For  company  or  food. 
His  little  coat  is  modest  quite, 

And  every  summer  day 
He  sits  amid  the  forest  deep, 

And  sings  his  little  heart  away. 

He  does  not  like  to  sit  upon 

A  green  and  leafy  tree; 
But  rather  on  an  old  dead  snag 

He  lifts  his  melody. 
He  sounds  his  peep  in  early  morn — 

In  dim  and  breaking  day; 
But  evening  is  the  solemn  hour 

That  hears  his  sweetest  roundelay. 

It  would  not  do  for  me  to  tell 

How  matchless  is  his  song. 
It  pipes  of  all  the  beauteous  things 

That  Nature  lives  among. 
It  sings  of  rain,  and  dew,  and  sky; 

Of  sun,  and  flower  nod. 
It  lifts  the  soul  to  mansions  high, 

And  breathes  the  sacred  name  of  God. 

279 


A  MOUNTAIN  MORNING  GRAY  AND  I  TO 
WORK 

P'HE  early  dawn — gray,  ghostly  in  the  east; 

*        An  old  moon,  dying,  low  hung  in  the  west; 
The  cabin  clutched  in  the  mell  of  wild  wind-hound, 

Seeking  a  deep  sunk  vacuum  never  found; 
Impelling  blasts  of  sand  on  window-pane, 

And  sifting  thru  fine  snow,  the  hurricane, 
From  dirt-grimed,  graveled  drifts  athwart  the  Vale — 

Wind  bleached  skeletons  of  deep  watered  gale. 

The  sun,  low  down,  deep  burdened,  weary  strains; 

Staggering  unwieldy  o'er  distant  plains, 
Peers  once  with  blood-shot  eye  into  the  Vale, 

And  viewing  wild  the  surge  of  howling  gale, 
Refuge  finds  in  a  gray  and  leaden  sky, 

And  lets  the  vacuum-seeking  hounds  go  by. 
And  they,  afoam,  despairing  of  their  prey, 

Yell  madly  on  the  Continental  way. 

Amid  the  rout  of  wind  and  weather  drear 

The  breakfast  lends  a  momentary  cheer. 
Rich  buttermilk  pancakes — a  slice  of  ham — 

A  little  fruit — fill  full  the  inner  man. 
A  tight  buttoned  coat,  warm  cap,  mittened  hand, 

And  eyes  set  'gainst  the  glint  of  snow  and  sand — 
We're  off,  the  dog  and  I,  with  axe  and  saw, 

Up  the  steep  slope  full  in  the  wild  wind's  maw. 


280 


We  cross  the  glassy  roof  of  iced  stream's  course, 

Low,  deep  gurgling  thru  the  airholes  hoarse. 
The  meadow  grass — mauled,  frayed  to  brassy  brown — 

Seems  scarce  to  keep  root  hold  in  the  ground. 
The  smaller  trees  about  us  bend  and  groan; 

The  large  ones  stiff  receive  the  shock,  and  moan. 
No  life  to  bid  the  dog's  attention  gay: 

Bird,  squirrel,  rabbit — all  have  fled  the  day. 

The  mountain  crests  sharp  in  defiance  stand, 

Tossing  off  the  mad  wind-hounds  that  glut  the  land, 
From  horns  whose  keen  thrusts  loud  the  beasts  make 
howl, 

And  drive  them  sore  on  lesser  heights  to  prowl. 
Now  to  the  deep  protecting  forest  we, 

In  whose  thick  pungent  depths  from  mad  gales  free, 
We  cut  and  gather  fallen  spruce  and  pine, 

For  cottage  fires  and  deepest  winter  time. 


281 


From  the  Vale  of  Elkanah,  distant  about  forty-five  miles,  as  the 
crow  flies,  and  from  an  altitude  of  9,000  feet,  can  be  seen  the  lights  of 
Denver,  as  they  are  reflected  from  the  low  clouds  that  frequently 
hover  over  the  city  at  night.  The  upper  slopes  of  the  Vale  itself, 
at  altitudes  of  10,000  feet  and  upward,  are  plainly  visible  with  the 
naked  eye  from  the  view  points  and  parks  in  the  above  named  city. 

CITY  LIGHTS  SEEN  FROM  THE  WILDERNESS 

OFT,  as  from  my  hut  at  night 
I  scan  the  low  hung  southeastern  sky, 
I  can,  reflected  on  the  clouds, 
The  lights  of  a  great  city  spy. 
In  fancy,  I  see  its  thronged  streets 
Of  pleasure  rife  and  worldly  life, 
As  tho  I  myself  were  there, 
Submerged,  my  soul,  in  its  carnal  strife. 

Yet  tell  me,  thou  thence-from  speeding  wind, 
Who  of  all  that  motley  throng, 
Illumed  by  the  glory  of  his  God, 
As  I,  on  this  lone  hill,  lifts  song 
Of  that  love  divine,  which  in  Earth 
And  Heaven,  sweet  fills  thirsting  soul, 
And  alone,  shorn  of  goods  and  gold, 
Wafts  Life's  voyager  to  his  sure  goal. 

Yet  I  doubt  not,  and  loud  rejoice, 

That  thousands  of  those  city  souls 

Are  pure  and  fair  as  angels' ; 

Tho  deep  submerged  they  are,  in  close  folds 

Of  that  fevered  life  and  endless  care, 

As  I  would  be  if  I  were  there. 

Submerged! 

Aye — and  by  themselves,  and  why? 
Part  of  the  Perfect  Plan— is  this. 
For  e'en  the  stars,  the  nebulae, 
Swarm  as  bees  in  Night's  abyss. 

Shine  on! 

Beacons  of  yon  city  bright, 

And  flare  your  clust'ring  candles  skyward! 

While  I,  'neath  these  sparkling  stars  of  night, 

Pray  earnest  upward, 

That  yon  myriad  swarming  souls 

Wing  ever  truest  Godward. 

282 


YE  BRIGHT  FOAMING  WATERS  OF  BOUNDING 
ST.  VRAIN 


A  SWIFT  rushing  river 
Breaks  'cross  a  pebb'ed  strand. 
'Tis  one  of  the  waters 
Of  lofty  sky-land, 
Which  gathers  the  fountains 

Of  pure  melting  snow, 
And  carries  them  swiftly 

To  depths  far  below. 
'Tis  a  mad  rushing  flood, 

That  none  can  restrain — 
The  bright  foaming  waters 
Of  bounding  St.  Vrain. 

Ye  were  ever  thus  mad, 

Oh,  leaping  St.  Vrain. 
In  thine  eternal  rush 

I've  called  ye  in  vain. 
Your  sparkling  blue  lakelets 

And  pools  without  name 
Ail  seaward  are  streaming 

With  sluicings  and  drain — 
To  form  your  wild  water, 

Oh,  bounding  St.  Vrain. 

Yet  there's  one  lovely  spot, 

Ye  know  of,  St.  Vrain; 
When  I  called  ye,  ye  stopped, 

And  strove  not  in  vain. 
Twas  high  on  the  mountains 

Where  snow  glaciers  reign; 
Your  trickling  blue  fountain 

I  quaffed  in  its  vein, 
As  fast  as  it  melted, 

Oh,  bounding  St.  Vrain. 

By  that  happy  instance, 

Oh,  laughing  St.  Vrain — 
Like  lover  who's  tasted — 

283 


Tho  not  vile  profane; 
I  stroll  oft  beside  ye, 

As  seaward  ye  train, 
In  refreshing  fond  love, 

Oh,  bounding  St.  Vrain. 

Roll  on  then,  bright  water, 

And  verdure  the  plain. 
Roll  on  to  the  ocean, 

With  wild  mountain  strain. 
Ye've  plunged  from  the  prec'pice— 

Ye've  sprung  from  the  cloud; 
Ye've  leaped  from  the  gorge  rim, 

Which  gray  mists  enshroud. 
So  roar  ye,  wild  water, 

And  splash  your  white  mane — 
I  love  you — I  love  you, 

Oh,  bounding  St.  Vrain. 


284 


For  several  years,  it  was  the  manifestly  unjust  and  fatally  dis 
criminatory  law  in  Colorado,  that  only  deer  with  horns  could  be 
slain  in  the  legal  game  season  beginning  October  1st;  which  soon 
resulted — from  danger  of  total  extinction — of  a  law  wholly  closing 
for  a  period  of  years,  the  slaughter  of  deer  of  any  kind. 


THE  GUILT  OF  BEARING  PROUD  ANTLERED 
CREST 


'""INHERE  is  a  law  that  dooms 
|       In  autumn  of  each  year 
To  hunter's  ruthless  gun, 
The  proudest  of  the  deer. 

The  stag  is  he,  whose  lordly  horns 

Proclaim  the  lawful  prey; 
And  I  fancy,  as  Death  speeds  the  ball, 

His  mournful  lay: 

"Fly  on,  my  loved  doe,  and  live, 
Our  beauteous  offspring  to  thrive. 

While  I,  guilty  of  bearing  proud 
Antlered  crest,  must  bleeding  die." 


285 


YE  GREEN  PINES  AND  TALL  SPRUCES  OF 
WIND  RIVER  TRAIL 

OFT  in  sorrow  I've  wandered 
In  grief  from  our  Vale, 
Footing  wilds  dim  remote 
'Neath  the  moon's  misty  veil; 
To  wake  in  sweet  transport 

At  the  stream's  limpid  tale, 
As  I  walked  the  green  windings 
Of  Wind  River  Trail. 

Oh,  green  pines  and  tall  spruces 

Of  Wind  River  Trail! 
How  soft  is  thy  murmur 

As  I  tread  your  loved  dale. 
Mating  birds  sing  their  songs — 

Flowers  fragrance  exhale, 
As  I  walk  your  leafed  pathways, 

Oh,  Wind  River  Trail. 

There's  no  grief  that  Nature 

Cannot  sweetly  assuage. 
There's  no  sorrow  so  deep 

But  a  song  will  avail. 
And  I  feel  and  I  know, 

As  I  there  pilgrimage, 
I'll  find  joy  and  sweet  peace 

On  the  Wind  River  Trail. 

Oh,  green  pines  and  tall  spruces 

Of  Wind  River  Trail! 
How  soft  is  thy  murmur 

As  I  tread  your  loved  dale. 
Mating  birds  sing  their  songs — 

Flowers  fragrance  exhale, 
As  I  walk  your  leafed  pathways, 

Oh,  Wind  River  Trail. 


286 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  ELKANAH— 
THERE  IS  LOVE 

rT^HERE  lies  a  lovely  valley 

I         In  the  mountains  far  away, 
Where  people  often  wander 

And  rapt  lovers  softly  stray. 
And  oft  they  sweetly  wonder 

Why  this  valley  green  and  fair 
Seems  fairer  than  their  fondest  dreams- 

So  free  from  sin  and  care. 
As  thus  they  gently  marvel 

And  the  meadows  fresh  they  rove, 
They  hear  the  thrushes  singing 

In  the  deep  and  verdured  grove. 
And  the  song  they  always  sing, 
As  they  make  the  woodlands  ring, 

Is— In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah— 
There  is  Love. 

In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah— 

There  is  Love. 
Oh!    Hear  the  thrushes 

Singing  in  the  grove; 
Of  the  grace  that  God  has  sent 
To  this  vale  of  sweet  content; 

In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah — 
There  is  Love. 

In  this  flower  smiling  valley 

'Neath  the  mountain's  lofty  brow, 
The  dews  of  summer  sparkle 

And  the  night  wind  whispers  low. 
The  green  and  tasseled  spruces 

Murmur  wood  songs  from  the  hills; 
And  the  alpine  cascades  falling, 

Babble  wild  notes  in  their  rills. 
Yet  sweeter  melody  is  wafted 

By  the  thrushes  in  the  grove, 
As  tho  Heaven's  fairest  Angels 

Joined  in  chorus  from  Above. 

287 


And  the  song  they  always  sing, 
As  they  make  the  woodlands  ring, 
Is— In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah— 
There  is  Love. 


In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah— 

There  is  Love. 
Oh!    Hear  the  thrushes 

Singing  in  the  grove; 
Of  the  grace  that  God  has  sent 
To  this  vale  of  sweet  content; 

In  the  Valley  of  Elkanah— 
There  is  Love. 


288 


'TIS  MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  SISTERS 


TIS  moonlight  on  the  Sisters! 
The  Queen  of  Night  in  glory  rims 
The  mount  in  lunar  splendors, 
And  full  the  Vale  with  silver  brims. 


Tis  moonlight  on  the  Sisters! 

The  alp  world  in  beauty  shines. 
The  voice  of  Nature  whispers 

To  the  green  and  glossy  pines. 

'Tis  moonlight  on  the  Sisters! 

The  wild  stag  beside  his  mate 
Scents  keen  with  nostril  quivers 

The  soft  breeze  that  stirs  the  lake. 


Tis  moonlight  on  the  Sisters! 

And  all  living  things  are  moved 
To  fond  caress  their  lovers, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 


Tis  moonlight  on  the  Sisters! 

Come  forth,  my  love,  to  me. 
We'll  sweet  appease  Love's  hunger 

'Neath  the  quaking  aspen  tree. 


289 


As  seen  from  Park  Hill,  and  many  other  view  points  in  the  vast 
amphitheatre  of  Estes  Park,  the  ebon  wooded  depths  of  the  Black 
Canon,  with  its  beautiful  forested  rufflings  and  verdure  fluted  rim- 
mings,  forms  one  of  the  most  magnificent  canon  slashings  to  be 
observed  in  the  region. 

Down  this  deep  and  gloomy  corridor  and  far  across  the  Park  and 
on  toward  the  Great  Plains,  Hagues  stupendous  storm-hatching  mass 
sends  tempest  after  tempest  in  summer;  and  in  winter,  fills  its  spruce- 
clad  depths  with  booming  blizzards.  Hagues  is  the  restless  plotting 
Macbeth  of  the  oberland',  and  the  Black  Canon,  its  witch's  cauldron. 
A  beautiful  trail  leads  up  the  canon  to  Lawn  Lake  and  the  Hallett 
Glacier,  past  the  ranch  of  Donald  MacGregor,  the  pioneer  of  those 
parts.  The  limpid  stream  that  issues  from  the  cool  pungent  deeps  of 
this  glorious  forest  aisle  supplies  Estes  village  with  water;  and  close 
to  the  intake,  precipitates  itself  in  a  handsome  fall. 

A  THUNDER-CLOUD  ISSUING  FROM  THE 
BLACK  CANON 

THE  Thunder  Cloud 
In  vap'rous  grandeur — aerial  battleship, 
Loosed  from  its  alp  cliffed  moorings 
Among  the  gorges  high, 
Manoeuvers  for  the  canoned  channel 
Deep,  mid  the  dark  dusked  headlands 
Of  the  gloomed  forest  aisle; 
And  at  each  promontory — belches 
Its  forked  flashing  petard  bolt 
As  on  it  stately  plies. 

Blinding — the  flash,  and  thund'ring — the  roar, 
And  loud  the  boomings  'verberate 
The  spruced  gulches  o'er  and  o'er. 

Swift  gliding  now  with  white  bone  in  teeth 

The  monster  heaves  its  beaked  prow 

Of  slanting  pelting  hail. 

And  all  splashed,  the  shaggy  hills  and  steeps 

Are  cool  rain  submerged,  and  laved 

In  its  mist-flecked  swashed  trail. 

Straight  aimed  for  the  wide  op'ed  sea  of  Park 

The  stormy  galleon  sweeps 

With  battle  smokes  dim  veiled; 

And  vapor  fleeced  and  gray  canopied, 

Its  lofty  tops  and  turrets 

Lead  sombered  are — and  hid. 

290 


At  full  speed  from  the  shagg'd  umbered  strait 

It  bursts  in  fury  on  the 

Park,  with  smothering  rain; 

And  dripping,  the  drenched  canon  emerges 

From  the  mists;  and  bright  the  sun 

Gleams  on  the  peaks  again. 

Mid  way  o'er  the  sunny  sea  of  Park 

The  Cloudship  spies  Olympus, 

High  upreared  o'er  the  plain; 

And  with  cruiser  flight  and  dead  ahead 

The  Rainer  with  foamed  wake  bears 

That  peak  upon,  most  dread. 

Shot  after  shot,~the  great  guns  roaring, 

Hurl  full  on  the  crag  massed  fort ; 

And  leaping — crimson  fall 

Adown  the  Mountain's  grassy  glades, 

And  sweep  its  wide  wooded  slopes 

With  fire's  red  cardinal. 

Torpedo  lightnings  now,  vivid — with 

Sharp  hiss  of  whirring  motor, 

Flash  bright  horizontal. 

Fearful  too,  with  strained  utmost  speed 

And  engines  clanking  slaughter, 

The  Craft  to  ram  proceeds. 

With  terrific  shock  it  projectiles, 

And  tho  firm  the  Mountain  stands, 

Yet  trees  and  stones  are  hurled 

From  their  foundations;  and  rattling  loud 

Chaotic  the  storm  swept  heights, 

Boughs  down  the  steeps  are  whirled. 

Deep  murked — mist  streaming,  Olympus  stands, 

As  the  Battler's  beak  is  plunged, 

Storm  steeled  and  whirlwind  curled, 

Full  at  the  Mountain's  rock  armored  ribs; 

And  then  the  swart  Peak's  head,  dim, 

Thru  the  shred  Storm  Cloud  nibs. 

Rent  and  shattered  now,  the  Thunderer 
Past  the  Mountain  speeds;  and  flees 
Onward  with  tempest  spleen; 
And  cool  the  parched  valley  floor  is  drenched 
By  flood  of  rain  jet-spurting 

291 


From  streaming  wounds  unseen. 

Triumphant  now,  'mong  the  mist  wreckage 

And  the  sun's  gold  glory  beam, 

The  Mountain  lifts  its  head; 

And  'cross  the  douched  reaches  of  the  Park 

A  bright  bow  is  shining  flung — 

Glad  symbol  of  the  Ark. 


MOUNTAIN  MAID 

OH,  wild  is  the  wind 
On  the  mountain's  brow; 

And  wild  is  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
Wild  and  white  is 
The  glacier's  snow; 

And  wild  the  torrent's  flood. 
Yet  wilder  still — vast  virginal — 
With  maiden  depths  unwooed, 
Is  the  witching  glance 
Of  the  Mountain  Maid, 
In  vestal  flow'ring  mood. 

No  pool  dim  hid  'neath  leafy  bower — 
No  deep  tarn  so  rippling  bright, 

Or  sun  enamoured  sky; 
No  bud  of  heath  or  satined  flower 
Can  match  Thy  soul-windowed  light — 

Thy  soft  empassioned  eye. 
No  mountain  head,  o'er  its  breast  of  snow, 
Can  more  chaste  or  nobler  rise, 
Than  head  of  Thine  and  brow, 
Uplifted  o'er  a  bosom  pure 
As  fleece  in  azure  skies. 


What  swift  stream  arun  down  mossy  glade, 
With  lipped  banks  of  flower  rows, 
Can  match  the  freshness  dewed 
Of  Thy  cheeks  in  flaming  beauty  'rayed — 
Fair,  out-blushing  alpine  rose 
In  deepest  color  hued! 


292 


The  quivering  depths  of  dusky  Night, 
With  star-smould'ring  passion  fires, 
Are  cold  beside  the  flames, 
Which  Thy  casual,  clear,  askant, 
Yet  melting,  glance  inspires. 

Thy  hair  is  like  silken  glossy  rye, 
That  radiant  'neath  the  sun 

Shines  rich  as  rippling  gold. 

Thy  breath  is  like  blossom  laden  sky, 

That  herds  deep  breathe  in  June, 

And  bees  with  sweets  enfold. 
Thy  leap  is  like  the  far-bounding  doe, 
Who  swift  flies  beside  the  stag; 
And  drinks  in  grateful  quaff 
Of  pulsing  joy,  'mid  mountain  wilds 
And  high  ascending  crag. 

Oh,  Mountain  Maid!     Thy  wild  beauty  reigns 
Supreme,  in  many  a  heart 

That  yearns  but  never  tells 
Its  love  to  Thee  in  fear  of  rude  pains— 
And  which  Thy  pure  guileless  art 

To  sweetest  silence  quells. 
Reign  on,  then,  Thou  fair  Diana  soul, 
'Mong  Thy  native  sylvan  haunts; 
Till  suitor  bolder  vaunts 
His  taut  bow  in  sure  control — 
Piercing  Thee  with  Cupid's  dart. 

Oh,  wild  is  the  wind 

On  the  mountain's  brow; 

And  wild  is  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
Wild  and  white  is 
The  glacier's  snow; 

And  wild  the  torrent's  flood. 
Yet  wilder  still — vast  virginal — 

With  maiden  depths  unwooed, 

Is  the  witching  glance 

Of  the  Mountain  Maid, 

In  vestal  flow'ring  mood. 

293 


LOVE 


OH,  Heart!    Oh,  Heart! 
I  bury  me,  in  the  pit 
Of  Thy  purple  core; 
And  find  in  mine  arms 
The  fragrant  flesh 
Of  the  love-mate  I  adore. 


Oh,  Soul!    Oh,  Soul! 
We  ruby  Thee,  with  the 
Red  blood-drip  of  desire; 
And  find  in  our  breasts 
The  altar  flames 
Of  divine  celestial  fire. 


Oh,  Joy!    Oh,  Joy! 

What  sweet  ecstacy 

Is  the  glory  of  this  love; 

Sent — man  and  woman, 

To  the  Earth— 

And  sacred  conjugate  by  them, 

Pure  generates 

Beatitudes  of  holiness 

On  nuptial  stem; 

Which,  to  Heaven  rises 

'Brosial,  to  lave 

The  heart  of  Him  above. 


Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 

We,  mated,  kneel  to  Thee, 

Naked  as  ancient  sires. 

In  innocence  we  dwell, 

And  'joy  the  pure  desires. 

In  spirit  and  truth 

We  worship  Thee — 

Accept  our  holy  prayers; 

For  none  can  rise 

But  the  affinity 

Of  Thy  accepted  pairs. 

294 


TIS  EVENING  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF 
ELKANAH 


ONE  cloud  aloft  in  bright  glory  hung, 
Ablush  in  the  arms  of  the  setting  sun. 
One  star  agleam  in  the  misty  West, 
A  jewel  aflame  on  the  twilight's  breast. 
One  moon  afull  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Glittering  in  splendor — in  silver  drest. 
Tis  evening  in  the  Valley  of  Elkanah. 

One  song  of  brook  and  its  murm'ring  rill, 
From  the  deep  brooding  forest  on  the  hill. 

One  cry  of  bird  as  it  seeks  its  nest, 

To  cuddle  the  brood  thru  the  long  night's  rest. 

One  stir  of  wind  in  the  aspen  boughs, 
As  the  shadows  fall  of  the  still  eve's  drowse. 
'Tis  evening  in  the  Valley  of  Elkanah. 

One  sigh  of  joy  for  a  sweet  day  passed 
In  honest  toil  and  labor's  sweatened  cast. 

One  throb  of  heart  for  the  supper's  cheer, 
And  a  greeting  of  those  I  love  so  dear. 

One  love  in  soul  for  the  sons  of  men; 
A  prayer  to  God,  and  a  chastened  Amen! 
Tis  evening  in  the  Valley  of  Elkanah. 


295 


'Sing  me  songs  of  Brotherhood 
And  I  will  sing  with  Thee." 

Stephen  Tregemba 


M28986G 


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